


The Same Ground

by navigator



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Pining, Snapchat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigator/pseuds/navigator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the one that got away came back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in the making for SO LONG and I've loved writing it and putting it together. I just want to first say thanks to [Wade](http://tippingvelvets.tumblr.com) for first putting the idea in my head two years ago...! I hope this does it some justice.
> 
> As always, thank you to [Ella](http://eleadored.tumblr.com) for being helpful and inspiring and encouraging and talking it out with me when I needed it. I am v lucky to have you.
> 
> Lastly, my talented friend [Thrina](http://thrina.tumblr.com) drew something I loved so much that I asked her if I could work it into this fic and she said yes and I'm really excited about it. Take a look at it [right here](http://thrina.tumblr.com/post/125044105303). (And ty again for letting me borrow it.)
> 
> To everyone who's listened to me complain about this forever: THANK YOU. I hope you like it. <333

It’s not as though Louis thought they were going to stay together, or anything. They’re only 18 years old, for fuck’s sake; he doesn’t even know what he’s going to do after graduation. Right now, there’s no such thing as a sure thing. The economy, or whatever.

He’d expected a breakup, but he figured it would be something easy, something that would leave them in a position to put it down for a few months and pick up where they left off when either of them was back in town for Christmas or for Thanksgiving or for the surprisingly popular Halloween parade that brought people back to Delmont each year. Louis had prepared himself for that.

What he hadn’t expected, and what he wished he’d prepared himself for, was catching Harry in a lie that involved too much alcohol and a drunk girl Louis had never seen before at a last-day-of-finals party on a school night. 

That night was bad for everyone, not just for the two of them, because the jungle juice didn’t taste like alcohol at all and people were playing beer pong with it, for fuck’s sake, and the motel room they’d rented out was trashed and the cops had come, too, around four in the morning, and they’d all had their names written down on a pad of paper. Louis had no idea what they’d do with their names. Probably nothing. At the time he’d been sobered up by seeing Harry’s flushed cheeks and the slightly amused look on his face when he realized that Louis had caught him.

It just didn’t seem right that a three year old friendship and a three week old actual relationship would be threatened in a motel room that reeked of beer, and that it would boil down to a girl whose name neither of them could remember. She deserved better than a sloppy kiss from his ex-boyfriend. Louis knew those kisses were still better than most people at their best, so that hadn’t nipped his jealousy. He was jealous. He’s still jealous.

They were official for three weeks. He lost count of how many times Harry had marveled at the way their relationship worked out. _I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Or a girlfriend,_ he would say. _How’s it feel to be the first?_

At the time Louis had found it endearing; he’d been possessive over the title, even, knowing that he was the first and only to pin him down.

He was more than a conquest, though. He was Louis’ best friend. He was wealthier and taller, more magnetic and more confident than Louis imagined he’d ever be. They were inseparable.

—

“It’s fine,” he says the next morning. Harry stands before him looking dumbfounded and guilty and a little sweaty, probably because he just puked in a trashcan outside of the motel. “We were probably gonna break up anyway, weren’t we?”

“What?” His shock is palpable, but he tries to mask it when he sees Louis’ face and understands that he meant it. “I mean, I dunno, I hadn’t really thought about what would happen—“

“Okay,” Louis cuts him off, holding out his hand and starting to walk away. “So you haven’t thought about it at all? Not even once? Not even when you went with me to pick up my cap and fucking gown?”

“I wasn’t worried about it. That’s _not_ why I did that last night, I honestly can’t even remember it—” 

“Well then it works out, doesn’t it? ‘Cause now we don’t need to talk about it.” Maybe he’s angrier than he realized. Maybe he’s just hungover.

People are starting to shuffle down the outdoor stairwell from the motel, fumbling for car keys, wondering aloud if McDonald’s is still doing breakfast. Louis feels uncomfortable when he realizes people might’ve heard them arguing, or that people might’ve seen Harry hooking up with someone else last night. He doesn’t want anyone to ask him about it, so he turns to leave because he’s not sure what else to do and they have nowhere to go. He knows without even hearing half of Harry’s explanation that he won’t believe it or won’t understand it and he’d just rather this be the end of the discussion.

He’s graduating in two days. There are things he has to deal with between then and now and none of them involve having it out with his ex-boyfriend, or whatever, in a parking lot at eight in the morning in front of 20 of his classmates.

“Guess I’ll see you later,” Louis says with a shrug. He wishes he had a car to drive off in, something more dramatic than walking around the corner and three blocks east to his own house.

It feels anticlimactic, if this is the end of their relationship. He walks away thinking that there has to be more to it than that and hoping without much hope that Harry will jog after him and present a solution to their problems.

Louis frowns when he feels his eyes stinging and keeps his head down on the walk home. 

—

Harry stops by on the morning of Louis’ graduation. It’s been two days since they’ve seen each other; two days since they broke up. 

“Do you think we’ll get back together?” Harry asks. He’s sitting on the edge of Louis’ bed with his ankles crossed. He looks concerned, but still relaxed. Louis doesn’t know if he’s ever seen him any other way. He looks young—sometimes Louis is reminded of just how young he is and how many more years he has before he has to deal with the things Louis is dealing with right now. He’s so safe in his cocoon of high school and the only thing he’ll need to worry about in the next few months is being on time for cross country practice and picking up hours at the ice cream stand.

“I don’t know. Do you think we should?”

“I want to. I mean, I know you’re leaving in August, but.” Harry shrugs. “Are you mad at me?”

Louis is leaning against his dresser, facing Harry, but he looks down at the question. He’s embarrassed about how mad he was and how jealous he still is. “I just thought it wasn’t like that,” he says to the floor. “I thought that’s why we said we were together.”

“I know, that’s why I feel so bad. You know I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

“You keep saying that, but you still did it.”

“I know, but like—I think you’re the most incredible person,” Harry says, all earnest now, so bright-eyed and honest. “I never really thought about having a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. But I just want to be with you.”

Louis says nothing. He looks up at Harry again and wrinkles his nose, which is as good as an invitation. Harry stands up and walks toward him and rests his hands on his hips. It’s only been two days, but this already feels better.

“What about August?” Louis asks.

“What _about_ August?”

“It’s when I leave,” he reminds him, “for school. Across the country.”

Harry shrugs. “Doesn’t matter right now, does it?” He kisses him and Louis tries not to smile. “I already told my mom you were coming with us to the cabin this summer.”

“You did?”

“Can you come?”

They’ve never talked about it before, but Louis already feels better because they have something to look forward to, and a week with Harry means a week where he won’t need to talk to his mom about college stuff and majors and buying twin-XL sheets. “Sure.”

“She’ll let us stay in the same room.” Harry waggles his eyebrows, brushes their lips together again. “She thinks we’re friends.”

— 

Harry’s the last person he says goodbye to on the day before he has to fly to Portland. This isn’t the way he wanted it—he wanted Harry to spend the day packing with him—but Harry had cross country practice and he comes over at 10:30 at night with a bag of McDonald’s.

“Do you mind if I eat this here?” He sits down in the middle of Louis’ bedroom floor and starts unpacking his dinner. “‘m starving.”

There’s something that infuriates Louis about watching him there, sitting cross-legged on the wood floor and eating dinner like this night is no different than any other night, like this isn’t the _last_ night they have.

Louis lets him in eat in silence and then clears his throat.

Harry looks up, then around the room. There’s sauce from his Big Mac on the corner of his mouth. “Looks so empty in here.” 

“Feels weird.” Louis’ voice sounds small. He’s been on the verge of nervous tears all day. It hadn’t really hit him until this morning that he was leaving everything he’d ever known and somehow, in the midst of it all, leaving Harry seems less painful than leaving his creaky bed and his quiet street for a place he’s never been.

“Want a fry?” Harry shakes the red container, but drops it when he sees the look on Louis’ face. “Are you okay, dude?”

Louis clears his throat and frowns and shrugs. “Just nervous, I guess.”

“About that Niall guy?”

“No, not about him,” Louis says, scratching his cheek. Niall is his assigned roommate. He seems harmless and fun—the least of Louis’ worries.

A few minutes pass. Harry licks each one of his fingers and folds up the bag and places it in the trash bin and then walks over to the bed as if they have all the time in the world. He sits down next to Louis. “Can I stay over tonight?”

Louis just looks at him. “You weren’t even here all day.”

Harry kisses his shoulder. “So can I?”

— 

The next morning isn’t great. Louis is too anxious about the flight and the move and about finding his way to campus once he lands and about the myriad of new things he’s going to have to deal with later that day. Harry is a helping hand, moving heavy pieces of luggage into the trunk of the car, and they can’t steal a minute away from his mom, so their goodbye is just an unfulfilling hug. Later, Louis wishes he would’ve tried a little harder to get Harry alone.

It’s so dumb, but the thing Louis keeps thinking about after they break up is that they never really properly fucked.

Looking back now, he sees that it was the kind of bullshit thought only an 18 year old would have, because now when he remembers the two of them he thinks about Harry being bright-eyed and a good but messy kisser, and he thinks about how after he’d gone skiing with his family for five days Harry had been waiting in his bedroom for him and he’d kissed him without even saying hello first, and he thinks about how he saw Harry cry when he broke his arm after climbing a tree and how Harry hadn’t even been embarrassed about it, and how he’d accepted all of Louis’ condolences in a way that made Louis feel useful and important not just to Harry but in general. It made him want to help people. He really believed that he could be the one to keep Harry, if anyone could ever keep Harry.

He sees now that people weren’t to be kept, and that if anyone was meant to roam, it was Harry.

They didn’t even need to be _in_ a relationship to have a really good relationship, which was why it took so long for them to come around to the idea of them being a real thing with a real title. What they had was real, so why did they need to slap a label on it?

Nothing really changed once they were boyfriends except that Harry wrote Louis a note one time and left it in his locker like they’d seen people doing in movies. It mostly talked about how bored he was in Physics, and at the end he tacked on a compliment, nonchalant, much like he did in real life: “You look super hot today. I wanted to attack you in front of Mr. Schultz. Are you going out for lunch? I think I want a tuna sandwich. Love YOU! - H”

The love thing wasn’t new. They’d been saying that for years. The only difference was that they stopped adding _bro_ to the end of it.

—

He’ll miss his company. He’ll miss him showing up unannounced with a cup of over-sugared coffee from the convenience store. They had a routine, and it was the first semblance of a real relationship that Louis’ ever known. They built a world of their own within a world that was ruled by everyone else; their parents and teachers, even their siblings and daily responsibilities and mowing the lawn and folding the laundry and none of that mattered, did it, because at the end of it all there’d be a text from Harry and there’d be a promise that he’d come over and there’d be a million ways to get each other off, so many they hadn’t even tried before they broke up for good.  ….

— 

September 2010

It’s difficult to gauge the importance and the impact of his relationship with Harry until he starts to date other people in the first wildly busy few weeks of college.

His freshman year is nothing like he’d expected it to be; it’s better and more relaxed and so easy to meet new people that all of his June-to-August nerves seem, in retrospect, completely ridiculous. There’s a sense of relief mixed in with the thrill of all of these new faces, then. That alone makes him more up for _whatever_ , more willing to say yes every time his roommate asks him if he wants to go to yet another party.

And Niall makes it easy. Everyone knows him or knows of him, and more than that they genuinely really _like_ him. Louis understands why. He’s the life of the party even when he’s sober and, with a phone full of contacts in fraternities and friends old enough to buy them booze, the best parties just don’t happen without him.

These parties are breeding grounds for hookups in dorm rooms that reek of beer. Every time Louis dares to hook up with someone, he’s interrupted by a roommate barging in to puke in the garbage can or to break them up, talking about how they had class the next morning and sending a red-faced Louis out of the room with a half-hard dick. 

In truth, he doesn’t really hook up with that many people, and none of the experiences are memorable enough to stick. Not until Luke. 

— 

May 2011

Louis flies home two days after his last final at the end of his freshman year of college. Luke is staying in Portland to work at his friend’s food truck until school starts back up again and Louis was promised a spot to crash if he decided to stay, too, but he didn’t. Spending summer anywhere other than Pittsburgh seems like sacrilege to him. Portland is beautiful in July, they all say, but Louis misses his mom and he misses the girls and he misses the grittiness of his hometown and its shiny-sided diners and its craggy hills and the lack of fancy coffee shops.

He needs to give himself a couple of months to miss the west coast. He imagines it’ll take much less than that for him to miss Luke.

Luke had promised to visit, anyway. Whether or not he’ll actually make his way to Pennsylvania from Portland is yet to be seen, but his family comes from the sort of money Louis can’t relate to, the sort where nothing is too difficult or impossible because they can afford to give Luke everything that he wants. And if he wants to see Louis in a few weeks, they’ll send him there. Luke promised him this.

“So are you still seeing that boy?” his mom asks carefully after two days at home, which is an impressive amount of time. 

—

Louis knows that Harry is home only because he sees him tagged in a photo on Instagram. He looks more or less the same, but the photo is dark and taken from a strange angle. 

Harry sends him a text after Louis has been home for eight days. He’d been sitting on the porch swing and listening to his sisters play in the front yard when his phone vibrated on his belly. He’s both surprised and not at all surprised to see that Harry has sent him a text first, and that it gets straight to the point:

_Can you come over tonight?_  

Louis frowns. He wants to just say yes, but Luke comes to mind; he wouldn’t want to make him uncomfortable. Would hanging out with Harry make him uncomfortable? He’s never had an ex like Harry before. He’s never really had an ex before.

_what’s going on tonight?_ Louis sends back, feeling hopeful that maybe it won’t just be the two of them sitting on the nubby sofa in Harry’s basement, pretending they don’t have a history.

_Movie night I have a projector in the yard!_ Harry texts back, and then another: _Won’t just be us two. You can invite people_

Louis almost laughs out loud. _Lol. Who would I invite that won’t already be there_

_Don’t you have a boy,_ Harry writes, followed by three red heart emojis, tacked on to keep it lighthearted. 

Well, it isn’t as though he’s attempted to keep that a secret, but it’s still strange to read it coming from Harry. He feels oddly guilty when he writes back, _yes. He’s in Portland still_

He waits. He watches his phone screen and watches as Harry appears to type and erase and type and erase several times more before his next message comes up.

_See you at 8._

-

It’s the longest Louis has ever gone without seeing Harry since they’ve met. The absence was the easy part, but the hours leading up to seeing him again for the first time are agony. Is it nerves? Should this matter? He texts Luke to see what he’s doing, but he’s working, and he can’t really explain why he needs to talk to him without explaining that he’s going to see his ex-boyfriend.

The night is cool so Louis walks to Harry’s, hoping the entire way there that the extra time he spent walking rather than driving will mean he isn’t the first person to arrive. His heart starts to pound when he sees the lights on in the front of Harry’s house. Being at home with his family had been comfort enough, but the walk to Harry’s house is something he’s done so many times that it’s almost ritualistic to do it again. He’s missed it.

The sound of a film score drifts toward him as Louis gets closer. He swings open the squeaky chain-link gate and sees four heads turn around at once, each of them silhouetted by the screen projected in front of them. Louis takes them in and sees Liam, Sophia, Jeff, and then Harry on the end. Harry stands up first and Louis’ stomach clenches as he walks toward him, smiling so wide that it hurts, then all nerves forgotten as he lets Harry pull him into a hug.

“Hey, dude,” Louis says, and Harry laughs for no reason, but Louis does, too. He’s just happy, he thinks. There are familiar faces and then there’s Harry’s face, which is always a little something different and more remarkable. It grips him; it always has.

“We just started,” Harry says, walking back to his spot on a blanket on the grass beside Jeff. The rest of them wave, and Louis gives a round of high fives, easier than hugs and less uncomfortable. He barely knows Jeff, but Jeff looks like he really knows Harry. They laugh as they reach their hand into a bag of chips at the same time, like it’s a unique inside joke and not something that happens to everyone on a daily basis. But Louis knows how Harry can make things seem special and significant just by making eye contact at the right time, and he understands as he watches them that their history is far from ancient. Not like Louis and Harry’s.

They’re all teenagers and so there are no coolers for the beer; it all just sits with the plastic rings still hooking them together, sweating condensation onto the grass in front of the blankets. Louis takes a can and then sits at the end beside Liam even though he’d rather be next to Harry. 

It’s a little awkward at first. They’re watching Pirates of the Caribbean and they’ve all seen it so many times that none of them need to be sitting there watching it as intently as they are for the first fifteen minutes. Maybe it’s the beer that loosens them up or maybe it’s just that Liam is the most talkative person Louis has ever met, but after a while the two of them are shooting the shit like old times and talking like it hasn’t been nearly a year since they’ve had an exchange outside of liking each others’ photos on Instagram.

Jeff gets up to use the bathroom and Louis’ is less subtle than he means to be when he glances over to see what Harry might do now that he’s without his current partner in crime. Louis doesn’t know why he’s assumed that Jeff is the only thing keeping them from talking. He doesn’t know when he became so easily convinced that his and Harry’s history is flimsy enough to become undone because of one awkward night.

Harry sees him looking and within a few seconds he’s on his feet and brushing grass from the backs of his jean shorts as he walks over to Louis and sits right next to him, then steals a sip of Louis’ beer.

“Get your own,” Louis says, but he’s already starting to smile.

“When’d you get back?” Harry asks.

“Like...a week ago. Boredom is starting to set in.”

Harry looks around with a smirk and then shrugs, like _get used to it._ “Wasn’t boring when you lived here.”

A lie. But also not really a lie. They kept each other entertained, but it already feels different between them. Louis wrinkles his nose. “I’m sure you had plenty of fun without me.”

“Crying every night isn’t very fun,” Harry deadpans, and Louis whacks him on the knee with a loose fist, laughing easily.

“Yeah, you were so broken up about me leaving it took you a month to text me when I got there.” Louis gives him a look, daring him to challenge that, but Harry just blinks slowly and shrugs a shoulder and then points to a firefly lit up right next to Louis’ head.

“This is the first time I’ve seen them all year,” he marvels, eyes wide and dreamy, and Louis knows he’s already lost him to his previous train of thought. Harry looks right at him, tilts his head to the side. “They came back because of you.”

Louis’ stomach twists and he flattens his mouth out into a sort of grimace he only uses when he’s trying hard not to smile. “Ugh,” he mutters, rolls his eyes, and Harry grins because he knows he won.

Jeff comes back out and Louis pretends to be interested in the movie so he won’t look disappointed when Harry gets up to sit beside him again. That’s what they’re doing now. This is the new normal for him and Harry. 

He pulls out his phone. There’s a text from Luke and Louis remembers that he doesn’t have a void to fill, after all. 

—

**May 2012**

“There are way too many people here,” Harry says, voice slurring, but he sounds happy about it.

He isn’t wrong. The back door is crowded with people standing with red cups in their hands and someone’s got YouTube playing a Yellowcard song on the TV so loud everyone has to yell over the sound. Louis backs up against the wall to let a group of girls pass by as they all hold hands on the way to the bathroom, looking as though they could care less about anyone else there except for each other.

That’s sort of how he feels about Harry, actually. Louis takes sip of his drink and ignores the vibration of his phone in his pocket. 

“Kick ‘em out,” Louis says, and they both laugh, trying to imagine that. It feels like high school, or like how parties in high school would have felt if anyone was old enough to buy alcohol or experienced enough not to puke after their second beer.

It also feels like home, but the sort of _home_ that people try to escape. _We could leave this town and run forever_ , the guy from Yellowcard whines, and that’s exactly what he means.

“You won’t shotgun this beer with me,” someone says, and Louis looks around and starts to laugh when he sees Harry’s cousin Matt slinging an arm over Harry’s shoulder. 

Louis backs up a step. He has no interest in shotgunning anything; he’s pretty drunk already and Harry is, too, but he still takes the bait and hands Louis his current drink to hold while him and Matt count to three and go for it.

The night gets worse from there. Or better, depending on how you look at it.

Harry gets spectacularly drunk. Apparently he’s just broken up with someone and he won’t admit that it’s Jeff except Jeff isn’t there so Louis assumes it must be, and he has big plans to get him to tell the truth by the end of the night, but Harry is _impossible_. He’s not avoiding Louis at all but he’s so hard to pin down, and then once they start to talk for _real,_ Louis gets so distracted by how hilarious Harry is being that they just start to laugh, instead. It’s a comfort that Louis has only slightly replicated with people at school—namely Niall, but even that is different.

The party just doesn’t die down. More people show up right when Louis starts to think it might be finally end, but he doesn’t actually want it to.

Luke keeps texting him, too, but Louis’ phone is on 1%. Whatever anecdote or love note he sends will have to wait until the morning.

An hour passes since the shotgun interlude; maybe it’s more than that. Louis doesn’t know what day or time it is but the party is still loud and packed and everyone seems to be at the same level of shitfaced. Louis is just a hair more sober than Harry is, which is enough to attempt to talk sense into him.

“You don’t need a shower, dude,” Louis says when Harry starts to take his shirt off in the living room, insisting that he’s got too much beer on him and he feels “gross.”

“I do!” Harry laughs, unbuttoning his jeans. “Move out of the way. I have Axe body wash.”

“Tool,” Louis tells him, following him to the bathroom. “Did you rob the boy’s locker room at PHS?”

Harry laughs so hard he snorts and almost knocks his head into the doorjamb to the bathroom. There’s a guy inside looking like he might’ve just puked and he walks out when he sees Harry turn on the shower. Harry is still wearing slim black jeans, but they’re all unbuttoned and the weight of his belt makes the fly hang low enough to show the waistband at the front and the bit of dark hair disappearing in a trail beneath it. 

Louis’ eyes are glazed over and he realizes belatedly, drunkenly, that he has been staring. Harry has become sort of a spectacle; the door is wide open and there are people laughing as he steps into the shower in his briefs and lets the water soak him through, singing Whitney Houston loudly and loving the attention. The curtain is wide open, water spilling all over the tiles.

“Excuse me, I’m trying to shower here,” Harry mock-complains when a few people try to step in with him. Louis frowns; he doesn’t like that other people have done the thing he wishes he would have done first, and that they’re treating Harry as though he’s _their_ spectacle and not the one Louis feels he has expressly claimed as his own.

And he hasn’t, of course. He can’t be mad, but he’s still standing there scowling at the edge of the bath, getting splashed and ignored. 

Louis decides with drunk reasoning that he’s had enough, and he turns off the bathroom lights as he walks out, smiles at the shrieks that follow him down the hallway. He pulls out his phone with a new intention of finding a charger so that he has enough battery to talk to to Luke, to tell him that he loves him, that he misses him, but then he hears a thud and turns around.

People are laughing, at least, so maybe no one’s hurt. Louis would know Harry’s voice out of anywhere and he can hear him laughing. When Louis walks back in, it looks about as bad as he’d expected: the shower curtain has been ripped off and there are five people piled into the bath tub. Harry is at the bottom, flailing. By some miracle he does see Louis and starts to call out for him, thrusting his hand up. 

Louis helps him out and throws a towel at him once he’s on his feet. 

Harry wipes off his face and looks at Louis. “Why are you still wearing that?” He points to Louis’ shirt, which is white and completely soaked through, heavy and hanging down at his hips.

“You don’t smell like Axe,” Louis says, wringing out his shirt and gazing at Harry’s lips, red and shiny, forgetting what he said as soon as it was out of his mouth.

“Do I have a bruise?” Harry asks. 

“Where?”

He spins around and pulls down his soaking wet briefs to reveal an ass cheek sporting an impressive fresh bruise. Louis snorts and laughs and backhands Harry right over the darkest part of it. Someone laughs nearby and Harry does, too, tugging the soaked material up and then tying his towel around his waist so he can stumble out.

“Dude, why did you let me get in the shower?” Harry asks, sounding more amused than regretful. He has one hand on Louis’ shoulder, using him to keep balance as they walk in the hallway.

“It was your idea!” Louis squawks. Harry stops them both and shoves Louis back against the wall and makes his breath catch. “Hey—” 

“Want to go to bed?” Harry asks, sounding innocent enough, except he keeps licking his lips and staring down at Louis’, which isn’t subtle. It’s also not acceptable. 

“You’re so drunk,” Louis says, like he isn’t, too. He wrestles Harry’s hands off of him and presses both hands to his back to force him down the hall and into his bedroom. “I’m putting you to bed.”

Harry yawns and almost trips, stopping himself with his hand on the wall. “I’m not ready for bed.”

“Yes, you are.”

“ _You’re_ tired.”

Dark bedroom, soft rug beneath his feet, the familiar smell of Harry’s laundry and cologne hitting him as they walk inside. Louis pushes Harry down onto the edge of the bed. Harry looks up at him and blinks slowly, looks at Louis like he’s just seen him for the first time in months.

“Get in,” Harry says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Louis’ gut twists and he’s not drunk enough or stupid enough to make a mistake like that. Yes he is. He’s not going to, though. He doesn’t want to. He reminds himself that he doesn’t want to.

“Nope,” Louis pushes Harry’s shoulder back. He goes down easy and rolls onto his side, already starting to drift off. 

“Is Jeff still here?” Harry murmurs with his eyes closed. He won’t remember this tomorrow. “Go get Jeff, please.”

Louis tugs the sheet over Harry’s damp lower half. “He wasn’t here.”

He can see the moment he falls asleep and he can see the opportunity pass to ask him exactly what happened. Louis indulges himself and brushes the hair back from Harry’s cheek. Then he leaves him alone, in search of an empty bedroom or a couch and an outlet. He has to tell Luke goodnight. 

—

**May 2013**

How is it that, despite spending most of his year in Portland, these summers back in Pittsburgh feel the longest? How is it that he manages to squeeze in more meaningful interactions here than he ever does when he’s at college?

There’s something about being surrounded by things that feel like _his_ that bring out a side of him that doesn’t exist on the west coast. You can’t go home again, they say, except Louis has found that isn’t entirely true. Going home is like his retreat. Going home has become more and more necessary than it ever was when he was a freshman. Now he can’t _wait_ , and he savors every day and every stretch of boredom because he knows, soon enough, he’ll fly back west and he’ll have to work and study and live in the library and that this is the last time he’ll do it at all. He’s a senior. When the fuck did that happen?

— 

“Are you kidding?” Louis switches his phone from one ear to the other and leans his elbow on the handle of the lawnmower.

“I wish I was kidding.” Luke’s reedy voice barely holds a note of regret on the other end. “Alice got sick so I need to take all of her shifts.”

“But you already bought the plane tickets,” Louis attempts to reason, incredulous. “Just tell them you’re going. Tough shit.”

“That’s some stupid fucking advice,” Luke snaps. “I don’t want to get fired. This is my job.”

“It’s your job for, like, five minutes before you get hired at Microsoft, or whatever.” Luke graduated last year; he’s on his way to a good job, if his family’s connections pull through.

“So? I still can’t just _quit_ —”

“But you bought nonrefundable tickets!”

Luke sighs. Louis knows what’s coming and he resents it already. “My dad—”

“Yeah, got it, your dad could buy the entire airline.”

“Would you _stop_?” Luke sounds angry, and it’s the first time Lous’ felt bad. “It’s not my fault.”

“It just sounds like bullshit. You’ve never been here. In three years, you’ve never been here. My mom thinks you’re fake.”

“I have to go,” Luke says, sounding fed up, adopting that condescending tone he uses when he talks down to Louis this way. “Call me back when you realize how insane you’re being.”

And then he hangs up, and Louis throws his phone across the yard. It doesn’t even feel good. He stomps over to pluck it out of the pile of mowed grass where it landed and storms back inside, shoves his phone between the couch cushions, and doesn’t retrieve it for four days. 

—

Louis’ mom pops another piece of popcorn in her mouth and then offers the bag to Louis. “Does this mean you broke up?” 

“No,” Louis says quickly. He looks away. “I don’t think so.”

“Did you talk to him, sweetie?”

“No.” 

“He hasn’t called?”

“I’ve had my phone off.”

His mom stops chewing. “Honey,” she begins, “Don’t you think that’s a little…”

“Oh, so you’re taking his side?” Louis flicks a piece of popcorn across the counter at her and starts to walk away, not interested in listening to anything at all that might seem as though Luke was in the right.

“You know I’m not,” she says, following after him with the bag in her hand. “I’m just saying. If you’re not going to turn on your phone, maybe you should get out of the house.”

“I mowed the lawn today.”

She gives him a _not what I meant_ look, pauses, and then: “Where’s Harry?”

— 

It’s not until he’s next to him that Louis realizes he and Harry have only spent two or three days together since he’s been home. They do text a lot; inside jokes and anecdotes like _I just saw Mr. Schwarz at the hardware store_ and pictures of funny vandalized signs.

Chalk it up to being busy or to Harry being hard to find, but the real reason is one he doesn’t want to admit: that he feels guilty spending more time with him than Luke, which is _hilarious_ now _._

Harry asks, “What should we do?”

They’re side by side on the front step, elbows on knees, watching cars drive by. Louis doesn’t know what to do.

“What time is it?” Harry asks, nudging Louis on the shoulder.

“Seven-twenty-four.” Louis looks left and Harry is looking back at him. He smiles and shrugs, like, yes, I’ve been here the entire time you’ve been staring at your phone and wondering if Luke would text.

“I’m sorry,” Louis says, sighing. He shoves his phone into Harry’s hand.

“Don’t be.” Harry pockets his phone and slaps Louis on the shoulder. “Let’s go for a drive.”

He doesn’t ask where, because Harry won’t tell him. He’s a little different now; a little quieter, as if he’s finally embracing that mystique he’s always had. Sometimes it works and he holds things close to the chest and other times he has the face of five year old at his own birthday party, every emotion splashed out across those big features without a single mystery attached.

Harry’s been out of high school now for a year and Louis still isn’t sure what he’s going to do besides take a handful of credits at community college. He’s been taking religious studies courses and that sounds interesting and very Harry. He’s been volunteering at shelters in Pittsburgh and he’s been buying vintage cameras on eBay with money he makes from working at a coffee shop. His life seems really good, actually. Louis envies its simplicity and he wishes that he wasn’t so hard on himself. Harry makes everything he does seem like enough and he somehow doesn’t lack ambition.

They’re in Harry’s red pickup truck, going nowhere. Louis doesn’t ask and Harry turns up the radio so they can sing along to Tom Petty. Louis feels a little better already.

“When do you start again?” Louis asks. “School.” 

“End of August. I don’t even remember what I’m taking this semester.” Harry stops at a light and glances over at him, toying with his bottom lip as he stares for an uncomfortably long time. “What about you?”

“Three weeks.” Louis sighs and looks away. He doesn’t want to go back and face Luke if things are like this. “Who knows what the fuck’s gonna happen.”

“Are you that worried?”

“Not even about Luke,” Louis says, which is not entirely the truth. “But, you know. My senior year. It’s kind of like...now what?”

“No more essays. That’s what’s in your future.”

“What about you?”

He glances over to look at Harry, the sky changing colors on the window behind his face. He looks really good and Louis doesn’t mind staring at him for a few seconds while he waits for an answer. Something about the way he catches him looking makes Louis’ chest swell; it’s just something they share, a connection that both calms and excites Louis when he remembers how easy it is to be Harry’s friend now.

“I don’t know,” Harry says, but he sounds really happy about that. “I want to travel. That’s what I’m saving up for. There’s this artist retreat in Tulum I really want to go to.”

“Tulum?”

“Mexico. It’s just, like, on a beach. It’s really secluded. I think it might help me just figure it out, you know? Being home is…”

“Boring?”

“It’s a little different than boring. It just feels like...why am I here? Because you’re gone for most of the year and so are the rest of my friends. It’s hard to meet people.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, but he’s a little too distracted by what Harry just said, which is that Harry misses him _that_ much when he’s gone. He never knew. “But you’re friends with everybody.” 

Harry smiles, sheepish. “Yeah, but.” He shrugs and pulls into a gas station, but not up to the pump. 

“Want anything?” Harry unbuckles his seatbelt and looks over, then grins with his dimple and his crinkled eyes, looking delighted. “Wait, let me guess.”

“Okay, but if you forget the M&Ms—” 

The door shuts. Louis looks over to his side to watch Harry pad into the store, the only person dedicated enough to his aesthetic to wear skinny jeans and ankle boots in the summer. He disappears into the store and Louis looks around, wondering where they are. It’s someplace hillier than they live, in a neighborhood Louis doesn’t recognize. From the looks of it, the sun has about fifteen minutes before it sets. If they drive a little over the hill they might be able to see it.

It’s quiet enough to hear Harry’s boots on the blacktop as he walks back to the truck.

“Alright,” he says, resting the plastic bag on his lap. “I got your Sprite, popcorn, cookies—”

“And my M&Ms?”

“And your M&Ms.”

Louis holds his hand out, but Harry doesn’t hand them over. “Can I have some?”

Louis snatches the bag. “Okay,” he says, rips the top off. “But you have to catch them in your mouth.” 

“Okay,” Harry says, “Let me just...I want to go up here first.”

They drive up and over that hill and pull over at an embankment on the side of the road. The sky looks like it’s on fire. 

Harry kills the engine and takes his seatbelt off so he can turn enough to face Louis. “Okay. I’m ready.” 

Louis sends an M&M sailing too high, snickering when it hits Harry directly in the forehead.

“Try it again.” Harry leans in to grab Louis’ arms, positioning him the way he thinks will work best.

“Fine,” Louis says, but he does the same thing, his mouth twitching now to keep from laughing.

“ _Heyyy_.” Harry rubs his forehead. “You did that on—”

But Louis’ already looking ahead, where the sky has changed and turned so red it looks like something from a movie or a National Geographic in the 70s. 

“There it is,” Louis says, cutting Harry off.

“Huh?” Harry looks at him, then looks ahead. The sky is so crimson it’s jarring. Louis has to inhale to make room for the deep sigh that wants to escape, the one brought on by the beauty of _this_ and of a good night, finally a good night, and of a week’s worth of anxiety about his relationship that was always so deceptively simple until this summer. He exhales and his eyes are so wide that they start to water a little bit. 

“Wow,” Harry whispers. Louis clutches the M&Ms bag so tight they might just melt in his hand.

“Did you bring us here on purpose?”

Harry looks at Louis and his gaze is so soft that he sort of feels like he’s melting, and then Harry nods. “Mhm.” 

That’s touching, for some reason. That gesture is meaningful and Louis can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s only meaningful when it comes from Harry; probably.

He watches the sky for another minute, and another after that, watching the colors change and snapping a new picture every few minutes.

“This light looks really good on you,” Harry says to his left, and Louis flicks his eyes over at him, then down to his lap.

“If you wanted the M&Ms you could’ve just asked, Harry,” he says, glad the sun is glowing so red that Harry won’t see his flushed cheeks. He hands the bag over to him and Harry maneuvers his hand so that he can pour them into his open palm, and it’s silly that Louis focuses so much on every single place where their fingers touch, and the way Harry cups his around Louis’ to keep it steady.

They eat more and share the Sprite and watch the sky while cars whiz by on their left. The music is off but Louis doesn’t notice the silence at all. He wonders what it would be like if he was single right now. He wonders what this version of Louis and this version of Harry would be like if they tried again. Those thoughts make his pulse race; he never lets his mind wander that far. When he’s in Portland, it’s easier to imagine that he romanticizes his and Harry’s relationship as some inexplicable connection that no one else can ever understand. 

The thing is that it’s true. No one else _can_ understand it.

When he looks over at Harry, Harry’s already looking at him. He’s got the best stare of anyone Louis has ever met. Louis feels a little undone by it when he’s caught off guard.

“Let’s get out,” Harry says.

They walk up to the railing near the edge of the hill and Harry sits on the edge of it, legs kicked out in front of him, away from the view and facing Louis, instead. 

Louis walks forward until he’s stood a few feet in front of him and looks over Harry’s shoulders at the sky. He tries to seem unbothered by Harry watching him instead of the sunset, but Louis’ never done subtle well and Harry’s more perceptive than he lets on.

“Hey, Lou.”

“Hey, Harry.”

Harry kicks Louis’ sneaker with the tip of his boot and smiles, closed-lipped, just enough to reveal his dimple. “Feel any better now?”

Louis frowns a little, then nods. He looks at Harry. “I do, yeah.”

Harry nods. Louis looks away.

“Lou?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something else?”

Louis’ heart races. “Yeah.”

“You think you’ll stay with Luke?”

Louis couldn’t answer that question seriously right now and he wonders if Harry already knows that. It’s hard to make out his face when the sky is blazing behind him, so Louis walks forward a little and kicks pebbles beneath his feet, stopping when he’s right in front of Harry’s boots.

“Why?”

“Hmm.” Harry looks contemplative and so fucking beautiful that Louis can hardly remember a time when he didn’t look like _this_ exactly: with his hair long and his jaw this strong and a backdrop that looks like it could be in a landscape calendar.

“I just,” Harry continues, “think about you sometimes.”

Louis swallows. The Sprite is in the truck and he’s never been so thirsty. “What about me?”

Harry shakes his head and sighs and Louis really hopes he hasn’t given up on whatever this train of thought is, so he asks again: “What?”

“Just, like, normal ‘what if’ stuff, you know.” No one is more vague than Harry when he wants to be. It’s probably a good thing in this situation, anyway. This conversation probably shouldn’t progress much further.

“Well,” Louis says, playing it cool, pretending as though his heart isn’t slamming in his chest. “I don’t really feel like thinking about him right now.”

“I’m thinkin’ about how I have to wake up at 5 to open tomorrow,” Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead and standing up to stretch his arms over head. He drops them back down and scratches his belly where his shirt had lifted up, standing closer to Louis than he really needs to be. He places his hand on his shoulder and squeezes, like it’s an old habit he can’t break. He drops his grip quickly and jerks his head toward the truck. “You ready?”

They share the popcorn on the drive back and their conversation is mostly normal again, although Louis can’t stop thinking about Harry thinking about him. He thought that Harry had let him go a long time ago and had every reason to believe that, until tonight.

It’s dark by the time they’re back in their neighborhood. Harry lets his truck idle while Louis unbuckles his seatbelt and makes sure his keys are in and.

“Well,” he says, “Thanks for taking me out tonight.”

“Any time.” Harry looks like he means it. “Still feel alright?”

He doesn’t, really, now that he knows he’ll have to go inside and be alone and think about Luke and about school and his future. Nothing seems secure anymore except for Harry, and even he scares Louis—just for completely different reasons.

Harry undoes his seatbelt, too. “Hey,” he says, “C’mere.”

And he hooks his arm around Louis’ shoulders so he can grab him by the biceps for the second time tonight, running his thumbs along them as he gets a good look at him. He just nods at Louis, like, _it’s alright_ and Louis just nods back, like, _it will be_ , and it’s the most comforted he’s felt in a long time, really, because Harry would never say anything to make Louis feel weak or worse than he already does and by believing in him, Louis already does feel better. He doesn’t pull away, either. It’s been a while since someone’s touched him with this kind of certainty.

“Stop by Karma tomorrow morning,” Harry says, giving Louis a little shake. “Tea on me.”

“It’s a dollar fifty.”

Harry grins, glowing every time Louis fucks with him. He shrugs. “It’s still on me,” he says, and gives Louis a kiss on the cheek.

This would be fine, except that he lingers. Louis moves his face a fraction and he smells Orbit gum and aftershave and lets their lips brush, just a little. His stomach clenches— _this is it_ , he thinks. The first time he’s kissed anyone besides Luke for three years, and it’s Harry Styles.

Harry does what Louis couldn’t: he gives him a real kiss, close-lipped, but _real_ , and god, it’s still hot. They stay locked that way and press harder and inhale and angle their faces just _slightly_ until Louis pulls back with his lips parted and a sinking feeling in his gut that says _I want more_ and _I might have just cheated on Luke_.

He licks his lips. Harry is a fire hazard, the way he looks at him.

“I gotta, um.” Louis clears his throat. “I’ll come see you in the morning.”

Harry nods. He lets go of Louis’ arms and a muscle in his jaw twitches when he raises his hand to wave. “Night.”

The door shuts. Louis walks. He is able to walk, at least. He realizes when he’s at his door that his cell phone is still in Harry’s pocket, but there’s no way he can turn around right now without kissing him again and he opens the door and doesn’t wave and slams it shut behind him, breathing hard.

“What the fuck?” he asks to an empty room. He licks his lips and tastes gum and shuts his eyes, trying to remember the feeling, trying to figure it out.

—

The bell on the door clangs as Louis walks into Karma’s. He’s running on four hours of sleep. It’s a barely-bright 6:30 in the morning and there are three people in line and one behind the counter: Harry, in the same outfit he wore the night before except with his hair tied back in a bun and a black apron tied around his waist and a little black nametag that says Harry in capital letters with a banana sticker next to it.

Louis waits in line and catches Harry’s eye every time he steams milk or hands someone their change.

“Good morning,” Harry says when it’s Louis’ turn in line. Louis thinks about their kiss and how stupid-soft his lips were and how careful they’d both been. It’s almost embarrassing now to think about how precious they treated it.

“I think you have my phone?”

“Ah.” Harry tugs it from his back pocket and places it on the counter. “And I owe you a tea.”

“I _was_ promised a tea.”

Harry’s mouth twitches and he jerks his head to the table facing the counter. “I’ll bring it to you.”

Louis sits, his stomach churning. He has to bring it up; they can’t go on pretending last night wasn’t weird or that they didn’t kiss and he feels so guilty when he looks at his phone and sees a few texts from Luke, finally. He wonders if Harry noticed them, especially the one that says, _Love you boo. I’m sorry. Call me._  

“For you,” Harry says as he places down a paper cup. It smells like vanilla and honey and like real fall, not the pumpkin spice version of fall.

“What is this?”

“Bourbon vanilla honeybush.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ.” 

Harry props his chin on his hand and stares, openly and unabashedly, across the table at Louis. His face looks open and awake and so calm it’s almost alarming. “Sleep okay?”

The tea is delicious, but Louis doesn’t mention that. “I slept like shit.”

Harry makes a _hmm_ sound and taps his chin. “Did something happen?”

“I’m still with Luke,” Louis blurts out. His heart feels as though it might jump up his throat and out of his mouth and he gulps just to keep it down.

“Yeah,” Harry says, finally dropping his hand from his chin. It makes his stare a little less serial killer.

“So I wish we hadn’t kissed,” Louis says, shaking his head. He does not know if that’s entirely true.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Me too.” 

It’s not until he says it that Louis realizes he had been waiting for and expecting Harry to disagree with him.

“Oh.” Louis opens his mouth to speak again and then closes it, looks down at his tea. “Alright. Well, that’s....”

“I think it’s just probably not good for you to do that when you’re fighting with him.” Harry says this so clearly that it sounds rehearsed.

Louis narrows his eyes and forces a humorless laugh. “Where was that relationship advice last night?”

Harry shrugs. “I didn’t think you wanted advice.”

“What did you think, then?”

“I think you just wanted to kiss me.” 

Louis sits in stunned silence for a second, then stands up. “Fuck you.” 

“I just thought it would help you figure things out.”

“So you did that on purpose?”

“Could you keep your voice down, please?”

“No,” Louis says. There’s no one else in the cafe and he’s too heated to keep quiet. “Did you kiss me just to fuck with me, then?”

“You kissed _me_.”

“Grow the fuck up.” Louis grabs his tea and looks Harry up and down. “You don’t know what’s best for me at all.” 

Harry’s voice is quiet when he replies, his face turned away as if he doesn’t really want Louis to hear him. Feeling fire in his chest, Louis steps closer, challenging him.

“What was that?”

Harry squares his shoulders and looks straight at Louis. He’s not at all embarrassed to say it this time: “I know better than Luke does.”

And what does that mean, exactly? Louis is too pissed off by the implications to be intrigued by what this could possibly mean: that Harry thinks of himself as a better match for him and that he’s thought about this a lot and that he resents Luke, apparently. It’s just too late and too sudden for Louis to consider; he feels embarrassed for thinking their kiss last night was something that just happened and not some strange plan concocted by Harry to prove a point.

“Did you or did you not plan to kiss me last night?”

“I didn’t plan any part of last night,” Harry says. “I just wanted to hang out with you.”

And that’s the shitty part, isn’t it? He did kiss Harry first, and Harry was right: he had just wanted to kiss him, whether or not Louis was ready to admit that to himself. But being called out with cold hard facts had never before made Louis own up to them easily, and he wouldn’t start now.

“I’m gonna go,” he says. He picks up the tea and avoids Harry’s eyes.

“Okay, well—” Harry starts, but a man in a suit walks in and he has to make a dash to get behind the counter in time to take his order. Louis doesn’t spare a final glance back as he walks out and lets the bells slam against the door as he leaves.

It’s the last time he talks to Harry in person for two years.

—

Everyone told him that his senior year of college was going to be difficult, but Louis is still bowled over. There’s no way to prepare for writing three essays a week while trying to maintain an on-campus job while trying to squeeze in time to see his boyfriend. He takes up smoking just to give himself an excuse to leave the library. He calls his mom twice a week out of desperation. He wonders why he ever bothered with college in the first place. 

The most unexpected aspect of his final year in college is just how tired he’s become of almost everyone there by the time four years are up. After living with and around the same faces for so long, he needs space like he never imagined he would need in his freshman year, when everyone was new and exciting and older than him, when he was fast friends with people who seemingly had everything to offer. Now he’s just exhausted from nights spent in the library and from not having a social life. Now the invites to go to bars seem annoying when all he can do is feel the pressure of studying no matter how many drinks he has.

It’s during the final week of his senior year that he learns about Luke’s job. The job he got as a social worker in Alaska. The job he takes without consulting Louis first.

They’ll try the long distance thing, Luke says. He wants it to work. That’s what he keeps telling Louis: _I want this to work_. But that doesn’t mean anything, does it? Because if he wanted it to work he wouldn’t have chosen to live in Alaska and he would’ve taken the job he got offered in Pittsburgh.

_I want this to work_ , Luke says, but then he moves the night before Louis graduates and they have an arranged Skype date for the following week. He’s gone from living in his pocket to organizing time to see him on a screen and Louis already knows that it’s over.

He moves back home. He has a degree but he doesn’t have a job and he doesn’t have a boyfriend or any plans to date anyone else.

To his credit, checking Harry’s Instagram is not the first thing he does when he lands in Pennsylvania. He saves that moment for later, when he’s in his childhood bed and when the lights are off and he can indulge himself. It feels like poking a bruise as he taps in Harry’s username. He holds his breath. He’ll see him tomorrow—he’s already thinking about it. Tomorrow he’ll see Harry. He’ll make it right.

He clicks his name. The photos load slowly, one by one. 

Mexico, he learns. Harry is in Mexico.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"I didn't know you had Snapchat," Stan says. Louis shoves a fry in his mouth and looks up at him. 

"What?"

"Snapchat," he repeats, and points to where Louis' phone is lying face-up on the diner table, positioned between them. 

"I do?" Louis asks as he wipes his mouth and his hands then picks it up. "Forgot I had it." 

"Said you had something from Harry Styles." Stan sounds amused, but Louis unlocks his phone and opens up the app right away. "Do you still talk to him?"

"Not really," Louis mutters, distracted as he opens it up, wondering how to view whatever he sent. "How do I look at it?"

Stan laughs. "Tap the thing. The...whatever. Red thing?"

Louis does. There are no words, just blue skies and a beach and an ocean. He takes a screenshot without thinking twice about it. 

"What was it?" Stan asks. He doesn't know anything about them other than that he was Louis' best friend and first boyfriend. 

"Nothing," Louis says. He places his phone down on the counter. "On a beach, or something. Pass the ketchup." 

\- 

Two days later, Harry sends another. This time it has text attached. It's nothing, really, but it is enough for Louis to get ideas; it's enough for him to imagine Harry stretched out on the sand, baking, burning, glowing. He swallows his jealousy. He takes another screenshot. He flicks between the two, obsessing over the private glimpse he has of Harry's life in Tulum. He doesn't respond.

|   
  
---|---  
  
_Tulum, Mexico - June 11, 2014_

| 

_Tulum, Mexico - June 13, 2014_  
  
  
  


* * *

Louis can’t sleep, but the night sounds so good he doesn’t want to wreck it with the noise of the tv. He doesn’t mind, really. He’s on his back with the window open and a box fan blowing at him from the sill, hands on his naked belly, legs bent at the knee. His phone is face down on his chest, and he isn’t waiting for anyone to text him or for anything in particular. Not really.

He checks the time every few minutes, wondering how tired he’ll be for his interview tomorrow morning. It’s at 9:30, which is way too fucking early to sound self-confident in his abilities to be a team player, or whatever. The job isn’t a big deal, really—it’s food service, something five days a week to help him save up enough to move out of his mom’s house. He needs it as a distraction, though, maybe more than just for the extra cash.

Louis tells himself he’ll count to one hundred, and if he’s not asleep by then, he’ll look at his phone again.

Of course he doesn’t make it to 50 before he gives up. Louis squints at the screen to check the time again and sees instead that he’s received a Snapchat from Harry. It makes his heart pound. He missed him. He misses him.

Maybe this is what he was waiting for. Of course there's no way Harry could know he was awake and waiting for a sign or for something that might make him feel less alone except for the bugs outside and the person across the street watching infomercials loud enough for the neighborhood to hear. Harry is out there. He's thinking about him. It's a comfort. Louis takes a picture of his ceiling and writes _no_ , sends it back, and falls asleep.

  
  
  
---  
  
_Tulum, Mexico - June 20, 2014_  
  
  
  


* * *

Fireworks.

All Louis can think about is that scene from The Sandlot, Ray Charles singing as kids run through the street, the entire neighborhood out in the streets to watch the sky light up. It’s like that, except he’s old enough to drink and to feel nostalgic about the youngest kids in the neighborhood experiencing this for the first time that they’ll remember. It feels like magic, the pop and the sizzle and the shower of sparks falling down around them.

They’ll do this all night. He has a garage full of fireworks ready for him and the boys to light up. Niall is in town and they’ve been drinking for hours. Louis feels more content and more drunk than he has in a while.

And then there are the snaps from Harry, the five in a row, the ocean and the sky as a backdrop. He had a beer for each letter in his name. He wished like hell he was there.  
  
---  
  
_Tulum, Mexico - July 4, 2014_  
  
 

* * *

A little over a month into his job as a server, Louis starts smoking more, mostly because it gives him an excuse to go outside during his shifts at the restaurant and bitch about customers with his coworkers. It’s one of his breaks when, mid-sentence, he sees that Harry has sent him something for the first time in a almost a month. He wonders, not for the first time, if he plans out what he will and won’t send directly to Louis. He’s been posting photos on Instagram daily and Louis scrolls them all with a fair amount of resentment. Those photos are for everyone. He craves the element of privacy, the acknowledgment that Harry is sending things only to him instead of broadcasting them to everyone. He wants to be singled out. 

He knows it’s not his place. 

"Hang on," Louis says, and when he sees the photo Harry sent him, he drops his cigarette so that he can take a screenshot before it self destructs.

His face. His hair and his eyes and a popsicle in his mouth. Thank god he told him what flavor the popsicle was, Louis thinks, almost annoyed at what a useless bit of information it was. But he’s smiling. It was meant only for him.  
  
---  
  
_Tulum, Mexico - August 1, 2014_  
  
* * *

 

Summer means nothing when you’re an adult. The are no more days off than usual and nothing to look forward to when it ends except for a reprieve from the oppressive heat and humidity. The lack of direction is challenging and scary; he hasn’t felt it before, having gone to school every year of his life until this one. Not knowing what he should be doing makes him feel a bit listless, which makes him feel reckless, which is the reason he spent the entirety of his last week’s tips on a replica Iron Man head for his bedroom. He found it on eBay while he was stoned. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but the constant thrum of insecurity never really goes away. 

So he goes on a date and he can’t think of a reason not to go back to his house—Tom’s house, that is—when they finish having drinks. It’s been months since he’s gotten off with someone else and even if this turns into nothing more than a one night stand, at least that will give him some form of release. 

The snap he gets from Harry while Tom is in the bathroom is the first one he’s seen in a while. He stares at it, thinks about Harry back in America, thinks about how he must feel in San Francisco. Louis has never been. From the looks of his Instagram he’s getting paid by some company to take photos in these places, but even the specifics of that are a mystery to Louis. He doesn’t like that he’s losing his grip on the things Harry is and the places he goes. Whenever he sees him again, if he sees him again, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to listen and feel happy for Harry for doing things that are meaningful to him and for finding himself in all of these places that aren’t suburban Pennsylvania. It seems inevitable and still frustrating that he wound up that way. 

When he sees the second Snap, he knows the night is over. He can’t look at Harry’s face and then look at Tom’s and pretend to want whatever he has to offer. 

Tom takes it well. Louis feels guilty, but it doesn’t stop him from pulling out his phone again once he’s in the car and dialing Harry’s number. If today is the first day Harry is back in the States, then his phone must work. And if his phone works, Louis wants to hear his voice. 

Harry picks up on the second ring. His voice is so deep and familiar that Louis smiles to no one who can see as he sits in the dark of the driver’s seat with his forehead up against the cool window. 

“Snails?” 

Harry laughs and it's as familiar as a Christmas song. “Yeah, they were the special tonight so I was like, ‘Sick, let’s give it a shot.’” 

“Let me know how that goes.” 

“Yeah. What are you doing?” Harry asks, a normal question as though it’s not been months since they’ve spoken on the phone. 

“I was just—leaving someone’s house. I’m in the car.” 

“Whose house?” 

“You don’t know him.” Louis says. He wishes he’d lied sooner. 

“Isn’t it pretty late there?” 

Louis clears his throat. “Are you, like…will you be in San Francisco for a while?” 

“I think a couple of months, depending on how work goes while I’m here. Think you can come visit?” The restaurant is so noisy that Louis has to turn the volume all the way up just to make out his voice, but even with chatter in the background, he knows he didn’t just imagine that Harry invited him out there. 

Louis scoffs. “Are you paying for my ticket? I’m waiting tables. I don’t have the money to get out there.” 

“I would,” Harry says, but Louis doesn't believe him. Not really. Not anymore. “I miss you. I’m really homesick.” 

“You’re fine,” Louis tells him, because he means it. Then, because he knows he needs to hear it, somehow: “I’m really happy for you.” 

Harry pauses. “Thanks, Lou. Can I call you back?” 

He knows he won’t call him back, at least not tonight, but his heart feels like it’s going to burst if he stays on with him longer, anyway. “Yeah, whenever. If you need anything, just—“ 

He doesn't know how to end that sentence. Harry doesn't need him and Louis has never wanted to be needed, but he wants to be able to help. He remembers a time when he and Harry used to talk about the future when they were in high school, and it always seemed too distant to be real. They were vague shapes back then, these adult versions of themselves. 

Back then, Harry always talked about traveling when he talked about the future. _Where to?_ Louis asked once, pushing him to be specific. Harry had shrugged. _Wherever you are,_ he'd said, and Louis had tackled him onto the couch and told him breathlessly that he was corny. 

Eighteen was so easy. 

Louis hangs up the phone, and drives past Harry's old house on the way home. 

|   
  
---|---  
  
_San Francisco - September 2, 2014_

| 

september 2014  
  
* * *

"Are you going on a date again?" 

"No," Louis lies. He's meeting Tom in a half hour. He'd been brushing his teeth when Harry called to ruin his day by telling him he was sick with a cough, and bored. He sounded pathetic. 

"Oh," Harry says lightly. "You said you were getting ready." 

"I'm just meeting someone for a drink. I'll probably be home after." 

"What are you going to drink?" Harry asks. 

"I don't know," Louis snaps, phone tucked between his neck and his ear as he ties his shoe. "Got any suggestions for me?" 

"I mean, are you trying to impress this guy?" 

Louis stares at the wall the way he wishes he could stare at Harry right then. "Are you fucking finished?" 

Harry coughs rather pathetically, which is not fair. "Just wondering. I'll let you go." 

"Yeah, okay," Louis says. He's not normally so distant with Harry during these infrequent phone calls, but he's annoyed that Harry's sick voice and line of questioning will be on his mind the entire time he's out with Tom. "Maybe you can call me next time you're really bored again." 

"Are you mad?" 

"Nah," Louis says. "I gotta go." 

* 

Two hours and four beers later, Louis has drunk himself into a state where Tom looks like Harry in a certain light and he's convinced himself that letting Tom rest his hand on the inside of his thigh on the drive back to his house is going to make him feel better. About everything. 

It's right when he makes that mental decision that he looks down in his lap to see his phone screen flash bright in the dark. 

Harry. _Hi_. 

It's a reminder. A poke in the chest. A poke in the heart, really. It's a terrible way of saying _I know you're thinking about me_ , and it's in Harry's handwriting, and Louis takes a screenshot and doesn't respond but he says _Hi_ under his breath and he smiles. He hates Harry. He hates him.   
  
---  
  
_San Francisco, October 1, 2014 - 10:45 PM_  
  
* * *

He drives by it all the time. It’s nothing special during the day and most people don’t bother to note the way the road curves and the shoulder broadens just enough to pull a car over. There’s no sign marking it as a scenic overlook. There’s nothing special about it other than that it’s where he and Harry drove that one night, their last good night together, the same night they kissed and Louis’ relationship with Luke began its slow decline. 

Other than nostalgia, there’s no reason for Louis to pull over on his drive home from the grocery store. He almost misses it and then thinks _fuck it_ and flicks his turn signal on at the last second, pulling off to stop his car. He hopes no one stops to see if he needs help. 

Maybe it’s the fact that Harry hasn’t texted him for a month. To be fair, Louis hasn’t texted him, either. He’s been trying to prove to himself that his life does not revolve around the times Harry is and isn’t in it. He doesn’t count this as a loss, though. He’s just enjoying the view and the fall colors and the sun starting to set behind the hills in the distance. He thinks about Harry, but he doesn’t text him. 

Louis feels his phone buzz with a text from his mum, wondering if there was a line at the supermarket. In the middle of a reply, he sees a notification that could not be more poorly timed. His stomach drops when he sees it and reads the text. 

He gets out to snap a reply, hoping that Harry will see exactly where he is. He doesn’t try to be nice. 

If he doesn’t admit to missing him, too, then it doesn’t count as a loss. 

  
  


  


|   
  
---|---  
  
sf november 2014

| 

louis' response  
  
* * *

Brand New. 

Louis stares at the text and stares some more. He hasn’t listened to them in so long because Soco Amaretto Lime makes him feel like he might explode from the inside out. 

Some songs are ruined forever by certain people and no matter how good those songs are or how meaningful they were at some point, it’s not possible to revisit them with a healthy mindset. At least not for several years. And that’s how Louis is with that song and Harry knows it, he must know it, because it’s all he can think about as soon as he reads the words: the two of them lying on their backs on his living room floor in the middle of the summer with the ceiling fan spinning uselessly above them as a Brand New song plays from Harry’s laptop. They kept quoting it for weeks and months after and sometimes Harry would choose parts to write in those silly handwritten notes he kept shoving into his locker. _They’re just jealous ‘cause we’re young and in love._

Most of the time he can handle these memories and reminders of Harry’s existence. But this one hurts. 

  
  
  
  
---  
  
sf 2014  
  
* * *

  
  


Being that it starts at 6:30 in the morning, the breakfast shift is not his favorite, but Louis likes how quiet the restaurant is and how calm it is when it’s just him at the front and two cooks in the back. His manager and his coworker will be in at 10, but for now, at 7:05, it’s just him on a Sunday morning, scrolling through his phone and waiting for their first regular to come through the door any minute. Louis leans against the wall near the front window and taps his foot to the sound of a familiar song of a pop song on the radio while he checks his email and his Facebook and his Instagram. He’s not thinking about Harry, but he’s not _not_ thinking about him, either; he does the mental math to figure out what time it is there, wonders what he did the night before, wonders if he’ll hear from him soon.

He doesn’t expect to hear form him right that _minute_ , but then the bar at the top of his phone says Harry Styles has sent him a Snap. And then one more. And then another. 

It is 4 in the morning in California. If he hadn’t just figured it out himself, he would’ve made that assumption after he read what Harry sent to him. Louis’ face feels hot with amusement and the feeling he gets when he is the object of Harry’s affection, however fleeting it may be. 

Louis snaps a photo of his shoes and writes _go to sleep_ on it, then sends it back to Harry. He pockets his phone right as the first customer of the day comes through the door, and when he checks it an hour later, Harry hasn’t responded. 

Louis smiles and locks his phone. He can’t wait to tease him about this.   
  
---  
  
_San Francisco - November 16, 2014 - 7:05 AM EST_  
  
* * *

“Hiii. It’s Harry. Styles. Um, yep.”

The tone beeps. 

“Hi Harry, it’s me. I wasn’t going to leave a message but I just wanted to tell you your voicemail is fucking stupid.” 

Louis hangs up and then calls again, listening to the message again, this time without leaving a voicemail, just so that he can hear Harry’s voice in his ear. He misses him a lot today and there's no specific reason why, but that's usually how things work with Harry. He can't explain or understand the way his feelings toward him ebb and flow, only that they are always inside of him in some capacity. 

Two hours later, Harry sends him a Snap. It’s enough for now. 

  
  
  
  
---  
  
sf 2014  
  
* * *

It occurs to Louis over the course of a particularly boring week at the beginning of November that it feels like his life lately is in one long state of waiting for something. Every single day involves waiting, more than he feels comfortable with: waiting for Harry to call him or waiting to see if Stan will want to hang out after work or waiting for something to _happen_ , something big, something he can’t name. It’s over a particularly sobering cigarette on his porch one night that he realizes—or maybe he’s already known and is only just admitting it to himself—that he’s spent the better part of his year after graduating just _waiting_ for Harry in some capacity. He doesn’t know when or if he’s returning home, but it feels like his travels have to end at some point and it feels like when they do, Louis’ life can pick up again. 

But that’s bullshit, he realizes, and he’s tired of being so inactive about it. He’s never in his life felt so fucking _off_ , and it’s a cliche about recent graduates who feel aimless and stupid and meaningless, but seeing Harry really do something, something cool and interesting and something Louis would want to do, has made it come into sharper focus. He’s got to do something about it besides wait for something to happen to him first. 

And then it hits him: he could travel, too. He could buy a ticket and get out of the country and it’s completely terrifying but there’s nothing stopping him right now. Doing it alone seems to Louis like the most necessary part of the trip itself. It will make a good story and it will scare the shit out of him but at least he can say he did it with no one else. 

Later that night, Louis has a drink and buys a ticket with the money he’s saved from working at the restaurant. He’ll fly to Rome, because that seems to be a place where people go on solo Euro trips, and he’ll travel to other places—he’ll figure that out later. Four weeks after he lands in Rome, he’ll leave from London, and what happens in between is a month-long adventure waiting to happen. 

It’s something to look forward to, and that’s what Louis needs. It’s something outside of his own bubble of work-home-bar. It’s an anchor in the real world when he feels like half of his own is spent wondering what Harry will do next. It’s a way to get a grip.  

* * *

Louis has plenty of friends. He has Stan and he has Liam, sometimes, and he has Niall even though he lives in California now, and he has a group of about five guys he went to high school with that meet up to watch football or get drinks a few times a week. 

But lately he’s felt listless. He’s actually thought to himself, _I need more friends_ , which doesn’t make sense when he counts off the people that he considers friends. It took him a few days of feeling down about it until he realized: he misses being in a relationship. Being in a relationship meant he always had a text when he checked his phone in between classes or on breaks. It meant someone was checking up on him to see what he was doing at night and to see if he wanted to hang out when he got out of class or off of work. He misses that companionship, the mundanity of consistency. He wants that with someone, but not just anyone. 

He gets tastes of it with Harry, just hints of those moments. _I want to talk to you_ is a simple statement, but Stan would never say that to him unless something was wrong. Coming from Harry, it means far more. It means he’s been thinking about him and that he wants to talk to him because, to a certain degree, he needs to talk to him. 

At least that’s what it means to Louis. It’s why every morsel of communication he receives from Harry, however minuscule, is heavier and more meaningful than interactions he has with anyone else. It’s why _let’s talk soon_ feels like a confession. It’s why _hungover miss you_ makes his stomach clench every time he thinks about it. 

It’s why Louis feels his resolve start to shatter when he receives a snap after work one night of a neon sign that says _come here_.   
  
---  
  
san francisco, november 24 2014  
  
* * *

 

The west coast seemed like it was far enough away for Louis to consider Harry unreachable. Finding out he’s in New York City, though, just makes him angry. He sees it on his Instagram: a photo of some coffee shop with a geotag that leads back to somewhere in Williamsburg. 

Louis calls Harry as soon as he finds out. 

“What’s up?” he answers. It’s noisy, like he’s in a restaurant. 

“Hey,” Louis says. “Are you not in San Francisco anymore?” 

“No way,” Harry says, as though this is obvious. “Been in New York about a week, I think? I thought I told you.” 

“No. I didn’t know.” 

“Yep, just doing some freelance stuff out here. What’s up with you?” 

It’s still six hours away, but that’s within driving distance. Louis could call out of work and be there by midnight if he left right then, but Harry’s acting like that isn’t a big deal. He’s no less untouchable, no matter how much closer he is. 

It’s disheartening. He swallows and shakes his head. “Ah, nothing, I gotta go, actually. Talk to you later.” 

When he hangs up, he hopes Harry couldn’t hear a single trace of disappointment in his voice. It’s not just disappointment, either; he’s almost jealous of the entire city, of the people who were sitting beside him in that restaurant now, of the person he’s staying with. It seemed like his life was more unbelievable in California and when he was in Mexico, but Louis has been to New York plenty of times and he has context for Harry’s existence there. It’s just too close to home for Louis to feel like he can find excuses for Harry not to be with him. And that’s ridiculous, because Harry could be dating someone else, for all he knows. He just doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. 

But of course that doesn’t work. It’s all he thinks about while he picks the twins up from soccer practice and cheerleading practice, respectively, and all through dinner with the rest of the family. 

He didn’t expect to hear from Harry that night, and he certainly didn’t expect to find comfort in anything he could’ve sent him through Snapchat. But reading what he sends to him loosens the anxious knot in his stomach, just a bit. It’s exactly what he needed to hear from him, and Louis knows it’s no accident. Harry has always known.   
  
---  
  
new york city, december 1 2014  
  
* * *

 

__

_Harry sends the following Snaps in New York City between December 5th and December 6, 2014  
Louis opens none of them._  
  
---  
  
   
  
---  
  
  
  
  
---  
  
  
  
  
* * *

Louis’ phone falls into the toilet five minutes before he goes to work on December 5th. 

“At least there wasn’t pee in it,” everyone says, which isn’t really comforting. He forces a smile and a laugh the first time, but by the fifth condolence it takes all he has in him not to snap. It still fell in the fucking toilet, didn’t it? And he still doesn’t have a working cellular device, and no matter if there was or wasn’t urine on his now-defunct phone doesn’t make much of a difference.

By the time he gets home that night, it’s too late for him to take a trip to the mall and figure out how soon he can get a new phone. All day it’s been Harry on his mind, more than usual since he doesn’t know if he’s tried to contact him or not. The thought of missing Snaps from him makes Louis’s fists clench. The thought of having absolutely nothing on his phone whenever he gets a new one is, somehow, even worse. 

*

It’s another busy day and a half before Louis can make a trip to the mall. There’s no one around to question or judge him when he sits on the bench outside of the store and downloads Snapchat with shaking hands, hoping like hell as it downloads that everything will be as it was, and when it loads he sees that _yes_ , Harry has sent him something, or a few things, and he taps his thumb onto his name to watch the messages show up in succession.

They go from normal to concerned to maybe a little forlorn. Louis takes a screenshot of each and then scrolls through them, but he keeps going back to the first. Harry will be home in one month. _One month._

He calls him. Harry answers on the first ring.

“Hi, stranger,” Louis says, mouth twitching.

“Hey.” Harry is somewhat breathless, maybe a little relieved. “Everything alright?”

“I dropped my phone in the toilet.”

“Ah, fuck.”

“I know.” He really did miss him. “I saw your Snapchat.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you think I died, or something?”

“Shut up,” Harry says, and Louis can hear his smile shaping the slow drawl of his voice. If he really was that worried, Louis likes him more for it. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, I’m alive.”

“Lucky for me.” Harry clears his throat and starts talking too fast for Louis to respond. He doesn’t know how he would have, anyway. “


	3. Chapter 3

**December 2014** — 

There’s a fire going when he gets home from work that night; he can smell it from outside. Phoebe will be happy, Louis thinks. She’s been begging their mom to get the chimney cleaned for weeks, ever since the weather got cold enough to turn the heat on.

It’s a crisp night, cold wind and bare trees and the lights from their newly-decorated Christmas tree visible through the window on the left side of the house. It smells like wood smoke and home, and Louis is glad to be there, glad to have somewhere like this to return to after a long day.

As expected, the girls are sitting by the fire with a board game between them. 

“Hi guys,” Louis calls out, and they return with sing-song _hiii_. His mom comes through the entrance from the dining room, wearing a smile and holding a bowl of what smells like freshly popped popcorn. 

“Hi, honey. Harry’s in the kitchen,” she says, brushing past him. 

Louis is sure he’s misheard. He steals a kernel before she gets too far, and frowns. “Who?”

She turns her body toward him, eyebrows raised. “Harry? Styles? He said you knew he was coming.”

“No, I—” Louis stops, at a loss for words. In case this is a cruel joke, he doesn’t question her anymore. If this is real, if Harry is in his house, if Harry is _back_ without telling him— 

He walks through the dining room. In the doorway at the end of it he can see him at the kitchen sink. He can see his back, his terrible posture, his long hair. He can see a pair of boots and two rolled-up sleeves. He can hear the water running as he gets closer, which is why Harry can’t hear him as he walks up. 

Louis stands behind him, stunned, practically vibrating. “Hi,” he says.

Harry jumps and turns around and his face is the best thing Louis has seen in forever. “Hi,” Harry says warmly, and leaves the water running as he hugs him with wet hands and wrists, arms wrapped tight around Louis’ pea coat. He squeezes and Louis does, too. He is so solid and surprising. Louis’ heart is pounding so hard it might burst if he doesn’t look at Harry again.

He looks at him. Harry looks back. It is surreal. 

“Why are you—” Louis takes a step back; it’s a stumble, really. He feels as if his legs might give out. “Washing dishes?” 

It’s not what he meant to ask, but it’s still valid. _Why are you here?_ he wants to know, and also _why didn’t you tell me?_ But he guesses he knows the answer to that already, because Harry doesn’t just strive for the element of surprise, he _is_ the element of surprise. He embodies it.

Harry twists the water off and dries off his hands, facing Louis, grinning wide and beautiful. “Your mom reheated pot roast for me when I got here,” he explains.

“When did you get here?” Louis frowns, hating that Harry was at his house when Louis wasn’t. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you’d be home. I wanted to surprise you.”

Louis wants to roll his eyes because, yes, obviously, but he can’t stop smiling and he actually laughs, covering his mouth with his hand and looking down. He has to pinch his mouth shut hard to keep from grinning all over the place. “Sorry, don’t know why I can’t stop laughing.”

“Because you’re happy to see me,” Harry says, joking. Probably not joking. Louis does roll his eyes, but only because Harry is right and he’s only been around him for minutes and he isn’t ready to admit that he’s right just yet, not when Louis has been so effectively caught off guard. 

“I can’t believe my mom gave you the last of the pot roast,” Louis says. 

“Can I have another hug?” It isn’t a request so much as a warning, because his arms are already wrapping around Louis’ shoulders, big hands pressed against his back. They’ve been apart for so long. They’ve been apart longer than they were together, officially, and it makes Louis feel slightly hollow to be so distant from something that has defined so much of his life. Part of Harry still feels like his when they cling like this, and he squeezes a little tighter and claps him on the back one more time before they break apart.

“Sorry I finished the pot roast,” Harry says.

Louis shrugs. “Already ate, anyway.”

Harry looks around the kitchen and then back at Louis. He looks confident and tall. He’s so painfully good looking in person that Louis can barely look at his face. 

“What?” Harry asks, because he is a shit who will not let Louis get away with anything. He’s caught him staring. 

“Let’s go sit down.”

—

They go down to the basement and lounge atop the same ancient sofas that have been down there since Louis was ten years old. Harry tells Louis he got back from New York the day before and that he’s back now for good, or for a long time, and that his freelance work with the travel company will no longer require him to travel.

“That sucks,” Louis says, finding it appropriate, but Harry shakes his head.

“No, it’s alright. I was ready to, like, settle a bit. Be at home. Figure it out.”

“What out?”

Harry looks up at him and makes a face like he was going to say something else, but shakes his head instead. “Just everything, I guess.” 

Louis swallows. He is fairly certain he knew where that was going, but it can’t be as easy as just wishing they could figure it out and then doing it. Whatever it was. 

“I actually bought a ticket,” Louis says, eyes flicking up to Harry’s to see his reaction. “To Rome.”

“Rome? When?”

“A few weeks ago,” Louis answers, purposely obtuse.

Harry kicks his foot with his own. “When are you leaving?”

“January 5th.” He looks down at his hands. The idea of leaving soon after Harry returns is so aggravating that he has a momentary, horrible thought that he wishes he hadn’t bought the ticket at all. “For a month.”

“That’s gonna be amazing,” Harry says, nudges him so that Louis looks up again. His eyes are imploring, genuine. “Seriously. Are you excited?” 

He was. He’d been really excited, actually. He’d spent a load of money on a backpack and he’d bookmarked a hundred travel websites and followed a bunch of Instagram accounts and he’d done all of this without the knowledge that Harry would be back in Pittsburgh so soon and, as he’d said, _for good_. Had he known, he might have made some different decisions, like delaying a trip until he could spend more than two weeks in the same place as Harry. If Harry was there, maybe he wouldn’t have booked it in the first place.

“Yeah, no, I am. I’m a little nervous.” Louis shrugs and presses his shoulder into the sofa so that he can face Harry. It’s difficult to look him right in the eyes after wanting this for so long. Louis can’t keep his gaze in one place, but Harry holds his stare.

“You shouldn’t be nervous.” Harry drapes his arm along the back of the couch and touches Louis’ shoulder. He says, in the same exact tone, “I missed you.”

“Weird, because I never heard from you,” Louis says, mouth twitching as a grin threatens to spread.

“I know,” Harry plays along, “It’s almost like...I should’ve kept in contact with you somehow so you knew what I was doing.”

“Yeah. Shame there’s not like...some kind of app for that.”

Harry squeezes Louis on the shoulder and Louis struggles not to shiver at the touch. It’s not much, but it’s everything. “Remember that one you sent me, like, in July or something? Stan was doing a cannonball, I think?”

Louis can only remember what Harry has sent to him, so he shrugs. “I guess.”

“You were laughing really hard,” Harry continues. “You get, like, one thing a day on Snapchat that you can watch it twice. And I had to watch it twice.”

“Because of Stan’s cannonball,” Louis asks, cheeks flushed.

“Because of your laugh.”

His mouth twitches and he presses it into a thin line. Harry’s fingers slip beneath the short sleeve of Louis’ t-shirt and it’s more intimate than Louis can fathom. He wants to touch him, so he rests his hand on Harry’s thigh. “I didn’t know you could watch a video twice.”

“Mhm,” Harry murmurs, and angles his leg a little closer to Louis’ so that his hand slides up the inside of it. “Too bad you never sent me any of your face.”

Louis wrinkles his nose, finding it easier to deflect Harry’s comment than ask him why. “Nobody wants to see that.”

“It’s all I wanted to see,” Harry says, and scoots closer with a sigh. Louis swallows thickly, knows he’s powerless to stop whatever happens next, because whatever happens next is just a variation of everything he’s imagined for the last year. Harry brings his other hand up to rest against the side of Louis’ neck and considers him for a moment. He says thoughtfully, “I missed this face.”

“Don’t be weird,” Louis says after a beat, but his voice can’t back up his accusation.

“Did you miss me?” Harry asks as he leans in. “Like on a scale from one to ten.”

Louis tilts his head from side to side as if weighing his options. “Like, a solid...two?” He nods. “Yeah, two or three, I guess.”

“Same,” Harry says, and then he pauses to give Louis a look that he’s seen so many times before, a kind of introduction to a kiss. Louis licks his lips and tilts his head, doing everything he can to make himself look as inviting as possible before Harry’s lips meet his. He sighs into it and Harry curls his hand around the back of Louis’ neck and the shift closer without breaking apart, relearning each other.

It’s like a time machine, kissing Harry. Whatever he’s forgotten over the last two years comes flooding in, memories made even more vivid when Harry’s lips part and Louis can taste him again. They both inhale sharply when it happens and Louis scoots closer, his legs in Harry’s lap and his hands sliding up his chest to grip at the neck of his sweater. Harry smells clean and expensive, but he still smells like Harry. Touching him again feels like the best dream Louis’ ever had. He groans when Harry slides a big hand up the outside of his thigh and squeezes the meatiest part of Louis’ hip, holding him there while Louis kisses him harder, deeper.

Harry swallows against the kiss after a minute or two and Louis breaks away just to breathe. He has the courage to meet Harry’s somewhat intimidating stare; intimidating only because Louis isn’t sure what to do with the intensity of it other than stare right back at him. He has no answers, only questions. Everything feels too fast when three hours ago he’d been content to go home and eat dinner and jerk off in the shower so he could get some sleep.

“Remember,” Harry starts, his voice as slow and deliberate as ever, “when I used to sleep over but we had to pretend I wasn’t here?”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Do we have to do that tonight?”

“You’re an idiot,” Louis says, and kisses Harry again, hard enough that he’s pushed back into the couch. Harry’s hands find Louis’ waist beneath his sweater and pull him closer until Louis is in his lap, facing him and using Harry’s thighs as a seat. It’s not sustainable but the angle is so much better for them both, and quickly their kisses go from exploratory to frantic while Harry’s hands move up Louis’ shirt and over his chest and Louis gives Harry’s long hair a tug, bunching it up at the base of his neck as he bites Harry’s lower lip. Harry groans in return and Louis does it again while Harry scratches up Louis’ spine and Louis curls forward. 

It’s frenzied, but it can be no other way. Each kiss and each touch is like a confirmation that their time apart has been keeping them from exactly _this_ , like no matter where Harry went or how long he was away, this was always going to happen at the end of it. Harry tugs Louis forward by the waist and their hips bump together, just once, but just once is enough to convince Louis that he could grind against Harry three times and come right there in his jeans.

Like he’s read his mind, Harry palms down Louis’ chest and then pops open his fly, impatiently shoving his hand down the front so he can feel where Louis’ dick is hard and trapped beneath the fabric. “Can I see,” he says, not really a question, and Louis sits up straighter so that Harry can look down between them. Louis does, too, and thinks how good Harry’s big hand feels wrapped around him, how perfectly it fits.

Harry gives him an experimental stroke and Louis bows forward, pressing his lips to the side of Harry’s neck. He stays like that, rocking forward as Harry builds up a rhythm, and sinks his teeth into the skin where his neck meets his shoulder. Harry hisses against the bite and tilts his head to the side to give Louis more room as he tightens his grip. It’s dry and the angle is tight but neither of them seem to want to stop to move somewhere better because why would they when this is enough?

There’s a spotty red circle left on Harry’s pale skin when he pulls back. Louis thumbs over it and then rakes his fingers back hard through Harry’s hair, trying without much success to fuck the tight circle of Harry’s fingers. 

“God, Louis,” Harry says, his other hand working its way down the back of his jeans to grip his ass over the tight fabric. “You wanna come like this?”

“You’re gonna make me,” Louis points out, which is all that he can manage when Harry thumbs over the leaking head of Louis’ dick. They kiss again, lips brushing only a few times before they gasp against it and Harry holds Louis’ dick by the base.

“I’d rather taste you,” Harry says, and kisses him again before pushing Louis off his lap and standing up in front of him. He unbuckles his belt and unzips his jeans, standing there for a second while he adjusts his dick, presumably to give Louis a good view before he sinks to his knees with a hand on each of Louis’ thighs. “God,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against Louis’ stomach while he gets a hand around his dick again. Louis hears him inhale and then exhale hotly against the head, his plush bottom lip brushing against the underside.

After that it’s just the heat of Harry’s wet mouth and the sounds he makes when he takes Louis deep and the way his fingers press bruises into Louis’ skin even through the jeans still covering his thighs. Louis holds onto his hair like it’s a handle but mostly just to push it back away from his eyes and get a good look at his pink mouth sinking down over his dick, reveling in the visual as if the feeling wasn’t more than enough. He’s been at his current rhythm for no more than a minute before Louis can’t take it anymore, gives his hair a yank as a warning and gasps when Harry looks up at him with his mouth stuffed full. It is obscene. 

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, “I’m—” But Louis can’t finish, just bites his lip around anything he could possibly say. He scratches Harry’s scalp and thrusts up into his mouth and throws his own head back, chin toward the ceiling as he lets out a groan. He comes with a stutter, sees stars when he squints his eyes shut. Harry presses his thighs down to keep them from bucking up and makes a breathy sound after he swallows, sounding as out of breath as Louis feels.

He doesn’t pull off right away, even after Louis’ muscles relax. He glances down, bleary-eyed, to watch as Harry licks him from base to tip. It’s almost too much; Harry must know that. He also must not care, because he does it again for good measure, licking his lips after he pulls off completely. Louis is stunned by how good it was and the fact that it happened at all; he really can’t focus on the finer details of it just yet, not until the fog of his orgasm lifts, and it probably won’t until he’s gotten Harry off, too. He wants to. He feels like he has a point to prove or like he has to give Harry a good reason to stay. And not just for tonight. 

“Come up here,” Louis says, tugging up his briefs again. Harry falls into the couch beside him and they kiss again, finally, messy and hot and somehow better than the last time. Having waited ten minutes since their last kiss, Louis doesn’t know how he ever lasted over a year. He feels drunk on Harry and the taste of himself on his lips.

“Can I just…” Louis murmurs, hand toying at Harry’s jeans. “Wanna see.” He looks between them so he can get a look at Harry’s cock when he pulls it free from his briefs. “God,” Louis whispers, kissing Harry again and stroking him slowly, building him up, feeling veins pulse beneath his fingertips and feeling, already, slick beads of come dripping onto his thumb as they kiss and Louis keeps up the pace. 

“Missed you,” Harry says against his mouth, and Louis just nods. He doesn’t have the words for it. _Missed you_ doesn’t seem like enough. A moment later he feels Harry start to squirm, feels the grip he has on Louis’ arm tighten. “I’m close,” he breathes, and Louis starts to move, angling his body down. “You don’t have to—”

Louis actually scoffs, meeting Harry’s eyes as he bends down. “Can you just shut up and let me suck your dick, please?”

Harry sort of coughs, sort of laughs, but it ends in a groan when Louis wraps his lips around him. He remembers Harry’s dick is big—it’s hard to forget—but he still has to work to get him as deep as he wants. He makes up for the difference with a loose fist and only has to put in an effort for a minute or two before Harry fucks up into his mouth once and then twice, holding Louis’ hair back with one hand. It’s a lot to take, a lot to swallow, and Louis has to gulp twice before he even pulls off completely. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits up straight again to kiss Harry with his mouth still a mess, which makes the kiss kind of a mess, which makes it even better.

“You’re unreal,” Harry tells him. It would seem hyperbolic if Louis didn’t agree that this did, in fact, feel unreal. It was a dream. He’s terrified of what might happen when they wake up. 

Louis kisses him instead of replying, his eyes heavy. He has to work early in the morning, but he’s already thinking of reasons to call out and sleep in with Harry. He has a feeling no matter how tired he is tonight, it won’t be enough, not when he has Harry beside him for the first time in ages. 

“You’re gonna stay?” Louis asks. He thinks he knows the answer. But the last time Louis thought they were on the same page, their misunderstanding had led to an argument he came to regret. 

That was different, though. There’d been Luke to worry about and there’d been distance to consider when Louis was back at school. Neither of those things were obstacles now, at least for a little while.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Harry says, which is what happens, eventually. What goes unsuggested is that Louis will fall asleep with him, and he does, the two of them flattened against each other like spoons on a couch that fits Louis perfectly but is several inches too short for Harry. When he dozes off, Harry’s hand is pressed flat against Louis’ chest, right over his heart. He thinks Harry is sleeping, but then he feels him press his lips to the back of Louis’ neck, gingerly, like he thinks Louis is asleep, too. 

—

In the next two weeks it becomes abundantly clear that Louis is not the only person in town who missed Harry. Not that Louis is jealous, or anything, but he’s fairly certain that Harry is pretty close to having a welcome back parade thrown in his honor. It’s a small community, and Louis understands, anyway; Harry is just about the brightest thing in it.

Settling into a routine back home keeps Harry relatively busy. Not too busy to see Louis at all, but his schedule is packed enough that Louis doesn’t spend half the time he wants with him. Some of that is purposeful. After Harry’s first night home, Louis takes a step back and tries to consider the mentality he had before Harry had showed up and brought him to his knees. Quite literally. 

The restaurant is understaffed and packed around the holidays and Louis is exhausted every night, working so much for so many days in a row he barely knows what day it is. It’s only when customers ask about his Christmas plans that he realizes it’s just a few days away.

Each year on his birthday—which is also Christmas Eve—Louis’ mom cooks too much food and invites everyone she knows over for dinner and drinks and early presents. It used to be a tradition conceived solely to make Louis feel as if his birthday wasn’t overshadowed by one of the biggest holidays of the year, but by now it was just something they always did, something even extended family and random neighbors showed up to.

So Louis really shouldn’t be surprised when Harry shows up, but he is.  When he swings open the door Harry drawls out a baritone, _Hiii_ and Louis laughs as Harry pulls him in for a hug that lasts for an indecent amount of time before they break apart.

“You can’t just crash my birthday party, Harry,” Louis says when they break apart. “My mom’s gonna be furious.”

“Oh, is it your birthday?” Harry deadpans right back to him, peeking around Louis after they shut the door. It’s then that he realizes Harry has a box in his hands, which he holds out to Louis. “You can open this now.” 

The wrapping paper isn’t red or green or even wintry. Louis feels foolish ripping the paper off to such a private audience, but as usual Harry looks patient and unbothered as he watches him open it up. There are four t-shirts stacked inside, each one paper thin and softer than the last. The graphics on them are faded, and two are in Spanish. The other says something about Alcatraz and the last has a picture of Times Square on the front that looks like it’s from the 80s.

“I found you a good one in each place I went,” Harry explains, leaning over to touch the fabric again. Louis can’t stop, either; they must each be at least twenty years old. It’s a very Harry gift. “Do you like them?”

“These are sick,” Louis says, carding through each of them again, then holding them to his chest as he leans in to hug him quick but tight, careful not to linger in front of his family. “Thank you, seriously.” 

They mean more to him than he can put words to, of course. They mean Harry was thinking of him wherever he went. It feels good to let that wash over him rather than questioning it, and because it’s his birthday he allows himself to just enjoy it. 

Paul McCartney’s Christmas song is playing over the stereo and the fire is crackling on the other end of the room and Louis feels his heart swell when he looks back at Harry, impossibly grateful and more content than he’s been all night. It feels like his birthday now. It felt like his birthday the second Harry walked through the door, even before he’d seen him with a gift.

“Let’s go eat?” he suggests, and they walk back into the dining room side by side. It feels right.

 —

Too many conversations that ended with “I don’t care where we go” had landed Stan and Louis at a small bar named The Alibi on New Year’s Eve. The Alibi was about the size of Louis’ living room and had a mixed crowd of men in their 60s and people in their early 20s who’d only been drinking for a year or two. It wasn’t nice and it wasn’t cool, but they decorated the entire thing for New Year’s Eve with silver tinsel and a mess of cheap noise makers strewn about on the tables, plus a guy Louis had graduated with named Aaron who was apparently a wedding DJ now. He promised to “keep the hot tracks coming all night” to a not-yet-drunk crowd of about thirty people. 

Louis knows Harry’s been to The Alibi plenty of times, and he knows that Harry was invited to New York City for the holiday, and he knows that he’d been seriously considering going, which is why he’s so surprised to receive a text at 10 that says _i’m in town. you at the alibi?_

By the time Harry gets there, Louis and Stan have pounded their way through two beers and two shots each and Louis has taken it upon himself to become friends with Aaron, someone he’s never spoken to since high school. He has alright taste in music despite being the very worst at using the microphone, and he listens to Louis when Louis suggests playing Come On Eileen, which is what’s blasting on the speakers when Harry walks in.

But Harry doesn’t walk, really. He throws his arms in the air and waves them to the beat as he walks toward Louis and Stan, enveloping them both in a hug at once. They don’t say hi, they just start screaming the chorus to the song, which is about as good as any greeting could be. 

“What are you drinking?” Harry asks once the song ends. 

“Are you sick?” 

Harry coughs to clear his throat, but his voice is still gravelly when he says, “No.”

“You’re gonna get me sick,” Louis says.

“How am I gonna get you sick?”

And Louis just stares at him, caught in the act of assuming Harry would kiss him at midnight. Harry’s dimple digs itself deeper while he stares right back at Louis, disarming and stubborn. “What do you want to drink, then?” 

It’s a struggle not to give Harry all of his attention from that point forward. He both loves and hates being called out on wanting all of Harry’s attention for himself, but in the end it doesn’t really matter because Harry always gives in, anyway. 

He’s terrible at keeping up any sort of act that might imply he doesn’t want to be stuck beside Louis all night and the two of them keep finding each other from across the room, gravitating toward each other like slow-moving magnets.

The Alibi is actually close to packed as they get closer to midnight. Louis feels nervous in his stomach like he does every year around this time; it’s just feelings left over from being a kid and from his older cousin convincing him the world would end when the ball dropped, probably, or maybe it’s because 2014 was difficult and 2015 could maybe be better, or maybe it’s because—it’s probably because—Harry is staring at him from behind the lip of his rocks glass as he takes a sip.

“Alright, everybody! Two minutes!” DJ Aaron calls out on the microphone, then turns up the music again. People rush toward the bar, where the bartenders start pouring champagne into disposable flutes. Louis fetches as many as he can grab to bring back to their small group, Harry and Stan and a few other familiar faces.

The music is too loud to hear it, but Ryan Seacrest has started counting down from one minute on the big screen TV mounted above the bar. Louis stares up at it and looks back down to see Harry right in front of him, crowded on either side by people seeking out someone to grab in the next 52 seconds.

Louis looks at Harry and is relieved that this part is simple for him: that Harry walked in and there was no question whether or not he’d kiss him at midnight. Even when he was gone this year, Louis always felt that there was an inevitability to Harry’s return and to _them_ , and the way he’s looking at him now, he can’t imagine ever doubting that they’ll wind up this way, in a shitty bar or at Louis’ old house or in another city.

“You were right,” Harry says, placing his glass down on the table behind Louis and leaning in closer. He places his hand on Louis’ hip like he’s been wanting to do it all night.

“About what?” 

“I might get you sick,” Harry says with a nod and a shrug. People around them have started counting back from twenty, shouting the numbers.

“That’s pretty fucked up.”

“I’ll buy you some Nyquil.”

Ten seconds. Louis’ eyes lift to the screen while their voices join in the chorus. Harry squeezes his hip at five seconds and Louis looks at him at four, and they lean in to kiss before the ball even drops. Louis inhales and Harry does, too, like they’re in this for the long haul, like they need to take a deep breath to prepare for what this kiss might do to them. It’s indecent for The Alibi and indecent for the general public in most places, actually, but Louis is lost in auld lang syne and Harry’s lips, his bourbon-sweet taste and the way he holds onto Louis like he’s something he’s never once lost.

They break apart to find that no one is looking at them at all, at least not anymore. Louis feels flushed and happy and Harry looks the same. In that moment it’s hard to remember that he has a ticket to anywhere in the world that isn’t within a two block radius of Harry. A Stevie Wonder song plays loud and Harry has to lean in close to speak right against Louis’ ear, saying, “We should just leave.”

And the best part about that perfect sentence is that it isn’t even about sex. It’s just that nothing will be good enough unless they’re alone together again and Louis doesn’t want to spend the rest of the night wishing he was somewhere else when he could be laughing into Harry’s kisses and ordering Domino’s to his mom’s house.

Which is exactly what they do, once they get home and share a bottle of white zinfandel someone bought Louis’ mom for Christmas. It tastes sweet and it tastes like a hangover but it’s delicious on Harry’s tongue when they kiss in between sips, getting the sleepy kind of drunk that makes Harry more tactile than usual. 

The pizza is disgusting and delicious. They finish the entire pie in an almost entirely silent five minute period that ends with Harry collapsed against him, his head resting on Louis’ belly as they both sprawl messily across the couch.

“You know what’s kind of bullshit?” Harry asks, his voice slurred. He doesn’t wait for a response:

“You’ll be gone in six days.”

“Five days,” Louis corrects him, not happily. “I leave on the fifth.”

Harry is quiet, his head rising and falling with Louis’ breathing. He can’t see Harry’s eyes, but he can see the set of his jaw, the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek. Louis knows the more Harry talks about it, the harder it will be to actually leave. But they can’t really ignore it anymore. It hasn’t come up since Louis first told him he was going, but it’s been a dark cloud over every happy moment they’ve had together. 

“Come up here,” Louis says, desperate to distract them both. It’s only been the new year for two hours; he doesn’t want to start it with a drunken, tense conversation. He’ll avoid that for as long as possible. Harry turns over and Louis can see in his face that he’s forgiven for the _bullshit_ aspect of his leaving, at least for now. 

Louis doesn’t remember dozing off in Harry’s arms. They’re shoved onto the old basement couch in a way that will make their bodies ache in the morning, but, as always, it is worth it.

—

Louis feels a little like he’s leading a double life. In one, he spends every spare minute packing and he’s double checking all of his travel documents and he’s making last-minute adjustments to his Airbnb bookings. In the other, he’s texting Harry as if he won’t be leaving in four days, making plans to see him on January 2nd with no mention of his departure.

Harry picks him up in the truck after Louis gets home from work. It snowed last night and Louis can see his breath as he jogs out to him. Harry just about breaks his back trying to open the passenger door for him from the driver’s side, and they both laugh at the effort when Louis does it himself. 

“Hi,” he huffs out through a laugh. The inside of the truck smells like the heat blasting and Harry’s cologne and like an old air freshener. Louis could live in it forever, in the familiarity of this moment. Harry reaches over to squeeze his thigh and keeps it there even when he starts driving.

They’re going to look at an apartment. It’s for Harry, but he asked Louis a few days ago to come with him to look at it so that he had a second opinion. Louis hadn’t really thought about the fact that the landlord was going to treat them as a couple until they pull up and see her standing there with a clipboard, smiling when she looks between them.

Harry charms her immediately. “This is Louis,” he says, and Louis shakes her hand. “He’s here to give me some moral support.”

She finds this hilarious, for some reason, and all three of them share a laugh. She introduces herself as Maria and they get started on the tour. The apartment—which is actually a small one-bedroom house on a tree-lined street—is perfect. 

“Will this be for the two of you?” Maria asks.

Harry stands up from where he’s been inspecting the gas range. “It’ll just be me on the lease,” he says, which isn’t a _no_.

Louis looks away and pretends to search for something in the refrigerator. 

“I like that place a lot,” Harry says once they’re back in the truck. He turns it on to warm them up but doesn’t drive away just yet, staring at the front of the house as if he’s imagining life there. His eyes flick back to Louis and he stares hard, waiting for him to agree or disagree.

“It’s really nice,” Louis replies, which is an understatement. It’s ideal and it would be perfect for Harry and, Louis hates that he can’t stop his brain from thinking it, perfect for _them_. His jaw clenches. He pulls the sleeves of his bomber jacket over his fists and sniffs, looking back at the sunny, snow-covered lawn in front of the house. “Is there a reason you brought me?”

“I just wanted you to see it.”

Louis looks back at him. “Why, though? You would’ve liked it even if I wasn’t there.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry says, frowning.

“Why not?”

“Because I like everything better when you’re there. I needed to, like, see you in that space. I guess that’s what I meant. I just needed to see _you_ there, so I didn’t have to keep imagining.”

It hurts to look at Harry when he’s being so honest, but Louis can’t look anywhere else. There is nowhere else. “It’s only a month,” he says. “Like, you can’t get all—like this, over me being gone for one month.”

“It just sucks,” Harry says, sounding resigned. “Because I thought I’d come back and—”

“And it’d be exactly like you wanted it to be?” 

“And I could try to make it that way, yeah. I dunno.” 

Louis can feel something rising in his chest, some combination of anger and shame. “And you didn’t think about maybe telling me that before you got home?” 

Harry puts the car in drive and starts to pull away from the house. “What would you have done if you’d known?”

“If I’d known what, exactly? That you were gonna come back and ask me to look at apartments with you?”

At a stop sign Harry turns to look right at Louis and his expression is not what Louis had expected. He looks hurt.

“I guess, Louis. I don’t know.” His voice sounds resigned and tired, so different from how excited he’d been at the house. Louis feels about three inches tall. Harry shakes his head and bites his lip and looks at the road again, turning back onto Louis’ street. “I’ll just take you home.”

“Harry, what the fuck? What are we fighting about?” He’s scrambling now, desperate to keep Harry from being actually angry at him and annoyed that he even has to defend himself when he didn’t _do_ anything. He’s leaving for a month, yeah, and he feels bad enough about that already without Harry saying exactly what he means.

“We’re not fighting,” Harry says. “I just didn’t think you’d react this way to me taking you there.”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to react a certain way to you springing this idea on me.”

“Is it really that bad?” Harry pulls over to the curb; Louis didn’t even realize they were in front of his house, but he doesn’t move. “Because I think about it _all_ the time, Louis. And I thought about it while I was gone.”

“Thought about what?” Louis snaps, eyes flashing. “Could you be specific? Like, for once in your life?”

“You!” Harry unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to look at him, shaking his head like this should be obvious. “You, and like, figuring it out, and coming back here so we could pick up where we left off and stop wasting time.”

“Where we left off? Like when I was 18 and you were 16 and we had no idea what we were doing?”

“That was still better than anything I’ve had with anyone since,” Harry says, and Louis can hear in his voice that he means it. He hears the truth in it, too, and understands when he says it aloud that it’s the same for him. Even his four-year-long relationship with Luke was nothing compared to the weight Harry carries within him. It never held a candle. “But I guess you don’t agree, so.”

It’s not entirely fair, the way Harry says it. Louis might agree, but he’s not ready to admit it just yet. 

“It’s just different,” he says, exasperated. “Alright? We were so young—” But even as he says it, he knows it doesn’t matter. He knows nobody else has ever dug their nails into Louis as Harry. With him, it’s effortless. Sometimes he thinks he’s fighting it because that’s what it feels like he should do, because anything that easy can’t be good. He’s not used to anything in his life being that easy. 

“I don’t care how old we were,” Harry says, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

But he knows it isn’t that simple. There are years to make up for and Louis doesn’t know if he can just ignore them.

“I gotta go,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. Harry leans across the console. 

“What?” Louis asks. 

“Give me a kiss,” Harry says, and kisses him on the mouth before he can answer. Louis can barely shut his eyes all the way before Harry pulls back. “And call me later.” 

Louis licks his lips and nods. He knows he’s difficult when he’s pissed off or feeling threatened. He knows the hardest thing to do is to kiss him when he’s like this. He doesn’t know anyone else who would bother trying to break through. He’s silent as he gets out, not yet ready to let go of the defensiveness and anger that has a hold on him. 

—  

It sucks to be in a weird argument with Harry two days before he leaves, because it turns the date of his trip into an ultimatum rather than something to be excited about, like if they don’t figure something out in the next 48 hours, Louis’ trip will be spent wondering and agonizing and wishing he was back home in Pennsylvania, which sort of defeats the purpose of taking a trip in the first place. He tries to will himself to be excited about it rather after Harry drops him home. He keeps busy helping his mum with cleaning and doing more laundry to pack for his trip and puts off texting Harry until the last minute, when he already knows he’ll be asleep. 

_going away party is tomorrow at 5_ , he writes, and then crashes into bed, too tired to stay awake and wait for an answer.

— 

It’s not really a party, actually. It’s a few family friends and family members who have never left Pennsylvania for more than a few days at a time and who think a month-long trip to Europe is something that calls for a celebration, never mind the fact that Louis lived away from home for four years for school on the other side of the country. It’s something his mom insisted on doing and Louis appreciates the gesture and any excuse to request his favorite dishes for dinner on the night before he leaves.

With so many siblings the house always feels a bit like a zoo, anyway, but with an added ten adults, there’s barely room for everyone to sit in the living room. Louis stays in the kitchen entertaining a few of his mom’s coworkers from the hospital while he nurses a beer. 

Harry doesn’t announce himself when he arrives, just comes into the kitchen and stands beside Louis and mumbles a _hey_ while he steals his beer, all without interrupting the conversation. Just standing beside him makes Louis feel better, more settled now that they’re in the same room, even if they should probably discuss what happened the day before. That can come later.

“Did you get something to eat?” Louis asks once they eventually excuse themselves to head back into the living room.

“I’m not that hungry,” Harry says, tucking a long strand of hair behind his ear. “Feeling alright?”

Louis shrugs. “I’m fine. Are you?”

Harry starts to smirk, staring hard at Louis. It’s a moment that reminds Louis of why they can communicate so well; because half their conversations are made up of meaningful looks and moments that are loaded with feeling and say more than words ever could. “Let’s go upstairs for a minute.”

“For a minute,” Louis repeats back at him.

“Just a minute.”

It’s a terrible idea and it will be more than just a minute. Louis goes upstairs, anyway, with Harry trailing behind him by a few feet. 

The creaky stairs in the hallway have never sounded louder. He feels a bit like he’s sneaking around, even though no one cares where they are or suspects that things between them are anything other than platonic. For as long as Harry’s been back home, they haven’t actually gone to Louis’ room yet. He hadn’t even realized it until Harry points it out at the top of the stairs.

“It looks nice in here,” Harry muses.

“It looks exactly the same, actually.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says, and walks toward Louis to kiss him hard before the door is even shut all the way.

“This won’t make me stay,” Louis says after a minute, when he has to pull away to breathe, “I’m still leaving tomorrow morning.”

“This could make me stay,” Harry whispers back to him, making Louis’ eyes flick up to his face. “You.”

Louis shakes his head, but his heart is pounding, his cheeks hot from Harry’s confession. It sounds perfect enough to be a line, but it’s delivered with such honesty that Louis knows better than to think Harry isn’t telling the truth. “You’re just saying that because you’re home now.”

“No, I’m saying it because—” Harry stops, eyes to the ceiling as he runs his hands down Louis’ arms, moving them back so he can get at his waist and squeeze. His roaming hands prove to be a distraction, because he doesn’t finish that thought—maybe that’s for the better—and kisses Louis again right then, harder this time, a ferocity to his touch that wasn’t there a minute ago. Louis latches onto that feeling and onto Harry, dying to forget their argumentand that apartment and so he digs his hands into Harry’s his hips to tug him closer, try to feel him—

“Louis!”

“Shit,” Louis whispers, freezing. His mom. He turns toward the stairs, calls out: “Yeah?”

“Come down! Nan’s here!”

Harry doesn’t take a step back, and he does not break eye contact. “Go say hi to Nan, Louis.”

“Let go of me, Harry,” Louis says, without conviction and with a smile. He gives him a soft nudge, too keyed up and jarred by being interrupted to mourn the loss of Harry’s hands on him for very long.

He adjusts his tee and looks over his shoulder at Harry. “Coming?”

“I could have,” Harry says, straight-faced for only a second before he grins.

Louis tries to muffle his laugh as he opens the door, where Harry crowds up behind him, not so subtly palming his ass as they step foot into the dark hallway. He lets go just as quickly and actually beats Louis down the stairs, exclaiming loudly as though he’s ever met Louis’ nan in his life.

“It’s Gloria, right?” He’s saying, while Louis hangs back and watches him. He waits for them to finish and tugs on his bottom lip, worried his chapped red lips will give him away.

Nearly everyone is gone an hour later, but Harry is still there picking up paper plates with cake frosting remnants smeared on them, bagging up garbage, wiping up spills, making himself so useful that Louis can’t exactly ask him to leave. And he doesn’t want him to leave, anyway, but he won’t ask him to stay. It wouldn’t be responsible to be up all night before he flies out in the morning. Even so, Harry’s there later than anyone else that isn’t a resident of the house to begin with, and Louis still won’t ask him to go. 

Louis’ siblings are all in bed and the house is so quiet as his mom flicks off the lights in the living room on her way up to bed.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she says, smiling at them both. “Turn off this lamp when you come upstairs, okay, honey?”

Louis smiles back, his heart racing. “I will.” 

And then they are alone, alone except for one cricket that won’t quit and the two pieces of luggage leaning against the front door, directly across from where Louis and Harry are sat on the couch.

“Where are you going first, again?” Harry asks to his hands, looking over at Louis almost as an afterthought.

“Rome. It’s not as cool as that artist residency on some mountain where you stayed, or whatever.” He waits for Harry’s grin before he continues. “But I’ve never been to Europe, so.”

Harry nods. He doesn’t expect him to go on about how great it will be when he so clearly doesn’t want him to leave, so Louis doesn’t push.

“This reminds me a lot of that other night.” Louis can’t help bringing it up, not when the similarities are too great between this and the night before he left for college. Neither of them had any idea what was coming. He looks over at Harry. “You’re always around to say goodbye, aren’t you?”

Harry licks his lips, tilts his head to the side and holds his arm out against the back of the couch. “Come here.”

Louis moves, nestling right beneath Harry’s arm, which is draped over his shoulders and curled tight around him immediately. Harry smells a little like whiskey up close and Louis has to hold his breath for a second just to keep his heart from pounding so hard and loud. 

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” Harry states the obvious, his tone a little defensive as he belatedly replies to Louis’ earlier comment. “You weren’t supposed to leave when I came back.”

“You weren’t supposed to come back at all,” Louis points out. “Mr. Worldwide.”

“That’s Pitbull.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re gonna look just like him when you go bald someday.”

Harry, appalled, holds his mouth open for so long Louis can’t help but laugh, poking him on the face while Harry remains that way, only breaking when Louis pinches one of his nipples. Harry has both his wrists in his hand in seconds, holding them up in front of Louis’ chest while Louis struggles in vain to break free.

“Say I won’t go bald,” Harry’s saying over and over again, while Louis shakes his head and tries to shimmy away, “Say I’ll have hair forever. Say it. Take it ba—” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Louis laughs out, glancing up the stairs to where his mom and his siblings are all asleep. It’s still a shock that they can go straight back to this and that Harry can make his toes curl just with a look and that he’s given up fighting to keep his hands off of him, now, when Harry releases his wrists and guides Louis’ hands over his shoulders.

“I have a question,” Harry says, thoughtful as he brushes hair back from Louis’ temple. They’re both breathing heavily from laughing and struggling, but the mood has calmed considerably, their proximity helping with that.

“Yes,” Louis replies.

“Are you gonna kiss boys over there?”

_Don’t ask me not to_ , Louis thinks. he doesn’t know what he’d do. “I don’t know.”

Harry nods. This answer is something he can’t argue with. “I want to kiss you right now.”

“Thank god,” Louis says, and kisses Harry first, a hand wrapped around the side of his neck to draw him closer. Part of Louis wants to shove him off just as quickly, to stop before it starts to hurt, but the more realistic part of him recognizes that he and Harry are and have always been like puzzle pieces cut to fit one another.

They lock into place. Louis’ mouth opens against Harry’s and his leg swings over Harry’s thigh and Harry’s big hand hitches it even closer and they’re rolling until Louis is on his lap, straddling and sitting down there. Harry’s fingers dig into his hips so hard that Louis hisses against his lips and then gasps, pulling away so that he can breathe and possibly talk himself out of a fucking mess.

Harry rests his forehead against Louis’ chest, speaking against the fabric of his t-shirt. “I got approved,” he says, looking up at him. “For that apartment.”

“Good.” Louis isn’t sure what else he’s supposed to say. He’s nervous that someone will walk down and see them like this and nervous because he has a pretty good idea of what Harry might say next and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to hear it. He kisses Harry hard and Harry kisses him back with a hand on each side of his face, thumbs pressing up against his jaw. 

“Say you’ll think about it,” Harry murmurs against his lips, eyes open and staring right at Louis. “While you’re away.”

“Mm,” Louis murmurs, not giving in that easy. Obviously he’s going to think about it.

“And me,” Harry says, tuggin Louis’ hips down and curling them forward so that he can feel the hard outline of Harry’s dick rub against him. “You’ll think about me, too.”

“You’ll make sure of that,” Louis says, imagining the incessant Snapchats with almost more excitement than he can hide. Harry slides his hand up Louis’ shirt and then around the back, slipping the other into his back pocket and kneading him there.

“And you can think about this.” Harry brings his hand around Louis’ front, popping the button open on his jeans. In seconds he has a big hand wrapped around his dick, making Louis curl forward and drop his forehead down to Harry’s. His flight is in 18 hours. There’s plenty of time to recover from succumbing to this, wherever it leads.

Harry kisses him. “Can we go upstairs?”

“That depends,” Louis whispers, though the answer is already yes. “Can you be quiet?”

“Don’t wanna be,” Harry says, twisting his wrist and thumbing over the head of Louis’ dick. “I’ll try.”

It takes all of Louis’ willpower to disentangle himself from Harry right then. He tucks his dick back into his briefs and avoids Harry’s hard stare as he buttons his jeans, just in case he runs into someone in the hallway. Per his mom’s request, he flicks off the lights and then waits for Harry at the bottom of the staircase. He makes the mistake of turning his head for another kiss, intending to give him a peck and winding up with his back pressed against the bannister and Harry’s hands mapping their way across his upper body. Eighteen hours doesn’t feel like enough, suddenly, to get his fix of this.

“Okay,” Louis whispers, pulling back with swollen lips and his eyes half-open to meet Harry’s in the dim light. “Let’s—”

Harry nods. Louis walks upstairs, his entire body feeling slack and starved. He’s not drunk, but he feels sort of delirious and dizzy as he tiptoes through the hallway with his jeans unbuttoned and finally, finally into his bedroom.

The door clicks shut. Louis turns around and Harry is on him like a magnet within seconds.

If anything, their dedication to complete and utter silence might be more of a giveaway than them not speaking at all once they’re alone. But no one could hear them, anyway, not in their hushed tones.

“Louis,” Harry whispers, as if he doesn’t already have his attention.

“Harry,” Louis whispers back, going for teasing and winding up sounding a bit desperate. He lifts his arms overhead so that Harry can pull off his sweater and shivers as he does the same to him. His skin on Louis’ skin is so good that he has to kiss him just to keep from groaning aloud. 

“The bed creaks,” Louis warns him as Harry pushes him down onto it. 

“Are you suggesting I fuck you on the floor?” Harry asks, probably joking, but the rasp in his voice and the way he couples it with a tug to Louis’ hair makes him exhale hard. Harry’s intentions were never exactly a secret, but hearing him say it aloud makes Louis realize how badly he needs it.

They take turns tugging off tight pairs of jeans, each of them lying back into the cushion of the bed once they’re left in briefs. Harry tugs Louis close and kisses him with his thumb and middle finger tucked beneath his chin as they rut against one another. Harry pulls back and feeds his middle finger between Louis’ lips, and Louis laps at it, soaking it down to the ring he wears before Harry draws it out again.

It’s not wet enough to do much when he presses the tip of his damp finger to Louis’ hole, but even the pressure of it is enough to make Louis wince and gasp.

“Shh,” Harry whispers, wholly unnecessary when Louis isn’t even being _loud_ , really. He presses his finger against him a little harder, pressing in this time. Louis hitches his thigh over Harry’s, making room. “Good,” Harry whispers, nodding. “You gonna be quiet?”

“Shut up,” Louis whispers, and sinks his teeth into Harry’s full bottom lip. He pulls it back, enjoying a little too much the way he can feel Harry’s skin flare up with goosebumps at the sting of it. It’s what he has to do to keep from groaning at Harry’s finger, though, pressing more insistently now, more than just a hint at what’s to come. Louis kisses him hard, once, and then rolls over to grapple with the top drawer of his night stand. He slaps the bottle of lube against Harry’s chest and they don’t discuss it when Harry slicks up his fingers and tosses it to the side. He presses two fingers to Louis’ hole, swirling around, teasing and making Louis buck against him.

“You want it?” Harry asks, needlessly. “I want you so fucking much,” he adds, and presses his middle finger into the first knuckle, stretching him properly and making it almost impossible for Louis to stay quiet. Louis lifts his leg higher and Harry’s fingers slip in and out of him more easily now, still tight but stinging less, the kind of hurts-so-good he’s been chasing.

He kisses Harry and whispers against his lips, “I’m ready,” but he’s probably not, really. He’ll feel it tonight and tomorrow and on the plane, but he’d never complain about that, and Harry doesn’t argue. Louis grabs a condom from the same drawer and rolls onto his back, where he can see all of Harry in painful, incredible detail. He’s so good looking now—always has been, but _especially_ now—that it’s actually frustrating.

He watches Harry roll the condom over his dick, which looks heavy and hard and _big_. Louis swallows thickly, his throat dry with how badly he wants it. He remembers the weight of it in his mouth, how the width of it had been almost too much. The thought of getting fucked makes Louis’ own dick twitch, leaking across his lower abdomen.

As if reading his mind, Harry curls a loose fist around Louis’ dick while he positions himself between his legs. “You have no idea how sexy you are, do you?” 

“Harry,” Louis warns, just above a whisper. He’s too impatient to take the time to enjoy Harry’s slowly delivered compliments right now, but he ought to know by now that it’ll be Harry who sets the pace. “You don’t have to, like—” 

“I’m not,” Harry whispers, pressing the head of his cock against Louis’ rim, letting it catch there. “Just thought you should know.” 

Louis kisses him to shut him up and to distract himself from the sting of Harry’s dick stretching him out. It takes a minute of careful adjustments and quiet gasps on Louis’ end before Harry bottoms out with a sigh, like he’s been waiting for this as long as Louis has. It’s been years of wondering whether he’d remember exactly how Harry felt and it’s better and more overwhelming and more _familiar_ , somehow, than he’d ever expected it to be.

He’s covered in goosebumps. Harry runs his hand up the outside of his arm and gets a hold of Louis’ wrist to press it into the pillow above his head, linking their fingers and looking down at him, their eyes locking in the dim light. Harry draws his hips back and then presses into him again, as slow as he possibly can. Louis shudders.

“I wish I could hear you,” Harry says against his lips, bottoming out once again and using his free hand to grab Louis’ ass, kneading it and nudging his leg up to hook around Harry’s back. Even if he could be as loud as he wanted to be, Louis  doesn’t think he’d say anything that makes sense. Because they’re so quiet, most of Louis’ release is through the way he grips Harry’s arms and rakes his nails down his sides while Harry builds up a rhythm that’s only just slow enough to keep the bed from squeaking too noticeably.

Harry hitches his leg higher around his waist and reaches down to feel where his cock is stretching him wide. Louis bites his lip hard, willing himself to stay quiet, but Harry can’t. “You feel so fucking good, baby,” he says, right against his mouth, sounding almost frustrated, and then kisses him again. “Wanted you for so long,” he whispers, “you know that?”

Louis does know, or he’d been wanting to believe it so badly that it doesn’t sound like much of a confession. Still, he lets relief wash over him when he hears the way Harry’s voice wavers when he speaks and squints his eyes shut, trying to wrap his head around a feeling he isn’t used to; it’s almost like a dream come true. Louis digs his nails into his back and nods, the best he can do while Harry is steadily fucking every word out of him. 

For a minute or two it’s silent, just the sounds of their muffled breathing and an occasional gasp as Harry finds a better angle or kisses down the side of Louis’ throat. Maybe it’s because he’s inching steadily closer to an orgasm, but Louis thinks, aware of the hyperbole even as it crosses his mind, that this is the best feeling he’s ever had.

“That good?” Harry asks, lifting his head to look at Louis, who can only nod as he bites his bottom lip hard. It’s better than good. It’s fulfilling.

“Wanna see you come,” Harry tells him in a whisper, then presses a soft kiss to his lips, oddly sweet in comparison to the way his hips are driving Louis back inch by inch on the bed. 

“Close,” Louis whispers, not really a warning so much as a plea for Harry to touch him or go harder or _something_. He lifts his hips into every thrust he gets and Harry circles a big hand around Louis’ dick, stroking him quickly and breathing out against his lips.

“C’mon,” he whispers, “You feel so _fucking_ good, Louis,” 

He wishes he could do more than whine when Harry compliments him, but there’s something about the note of frustration in his voice that’s so unbelievably sexy that it pushes Louis over the edge, because Harry getting off on getting _him_ off is hotter than he can even fathom. 

“Come for me,” Harry’s saying, whispering a bunch of meaningless encouragements right up against Louis’ ear for only him to hear, telling him how well he’s taking it, how good he feels, how tight he is, and then it’s too much to bear and he actually cries out once before Harry’s lips crush over his to silence him. The kiss makes his orgasm that much better, anyway, and he still gasps and groans into his mouth while Harry holds him down by the hip and fucks him through it. 

“Fuck,” Louis whispers, opening his eyes to look up at Harry, feeling crazy and relieved and completely spent. “Fuck, you’re big,” he breathes, which is actually not what he’d meant to say, but Harry seems to like the compliment. 

“It’s all for you,” Harry says against Louis’ lips, and even if it’s just bedroom banter, Louis wants it to be true. He leans up to kiss him while Harry finally comes, too, pulsing inside of him and managing to stay quiet through their kiss. Their breathing is labored and their kisses become looser and more lazy as Harry slows down. Louis is in such a daze as Harry pulls out that the ache of it actually shocks him. He rolls to his side and takes deep breaths as Harry pulls the condom off and ties it, chucking it in the direction of a garbage bin. He hands him a tissue and Louis wipes himself half-heartedly, leaving it crumpled on the floor once he’s dry. 

Harry settles down beside Louis again and runs his palm across his ribs. They’re sharing a pillow and some of Harry’s hair falls onto Louis’ cheek, but he doesn’t have the strength to brush it away.

“I have a confession to make,” Harry says in a low voice, his tone even deeper and more raspy than usual. He touches Louis’ cheek with his thumb and Louis manages not to smile. 

“Go ahead.”

“I have a crush on you,” he says, looking amused at himself. “How do you feel about that?”

“Did you just realize this?” Answering his question with a question is easier than having to admit that Harry’s joking confession had a physical effect on his insides. Louis sort of feels like he’s melting.

“No,” Harry replies. He thumbs beneath Louis’ jaw, his fingers scratching lightly at his scalp. It gives Louis chills. “I think I’ve probably had a crush on you for, like…” 

Louis waits. Harry looks up at the ceiling for an unreasonably long amount of time, and Louis clears his throat. 

“I think when I was a freshman. And you told me you wished you had curly hair, too.”

“I didn’t say that.” Louis blushes, knowing for a fact that he did. He even remembers what Harry wore that day, the stupid purple sneakers and a grin that hasn’t changed at all. 

“You said it,” Harry says, smiling as he leans in to kiss him. “You said it, I remember. And I said I liked your shoes.”

The kiss is enough to make Louis admit to it. The kiss, and the years of wondering and waiting, and the last year spent wishing Harry was in the same country so he could do exactly this. “I was crazy about you,” he says, meeting Harry’s eyes. 

“And now?” 

Louis nods. His heart pounds and he swallows thickly, because he can’t not tell him. “I’m crazy about you.”

Harry’s eyes go soft and he squeezes the side of Louis’ neck. “Babe,” he murmurs, and Louis bites his lip, “I think I have more than a crush on you.”

They kiss again, slower this time, tasting each other and breathing hard. Harry is so good at this, at kissing Louis, and he wonders what he’s been doing without this for so long. It seems crazy to him that this wasn’t what they were doing for the last four years, that he’s had to wait for it. That he’d been waiting without even realizing it was _waiting_ while he was with someone else.

Harry clears his throat. It’s so good, now, to look at his face and not feel like he has to hold back or look away when Harry stares him down.

“I just want to say,” Harry says, tracing circles over Louis’ collarbone. “You can do...whatever you want, while you’re gone. I don’t think I have the right to tell you not to,” Harry says, sounding as though he regrets it. “But I’ll be here when you come back. And I’m still going to want you.”

Louis takes a deep breath. He doesn’t even have to think about it, really. If Harry’s an option, he’s always going to choose Harry.

— 

February 3, 2015

The last text Louis sends Harry before he boards says, _don’t embarrass me at the airport._

So of course Harry embarrasses him at the airport. There are no balloons, but there’s a sign with his name on it and there’s Harry with the biggest smile in the world, chewing gum and holding a teddy bear that’s almost the length of his torso. He has every intention of asking him why the hell he bought a teddy bear for this occasion, but Harry drops it and the sign when Louis comes closer and throws his arms around him, instead, clasping the back of his head and laughing into the side of his neck. Louis inhales deeply and Harry smells like home, which makes him squeeze his arms around him even tighter.

“Hi,” Harry laughs out, grabbing Louis’ face so that he can stare at every inch of it, beaming at him. Louis stares at him, too, at his celery-green eyes and his long hair down to his shoulders, curling over the suede collar of his bomber jacket.

“Thanks for that teddy bear,” Louis says, glancing down to the floor beside them, where it’s lying rather sadly on its side. He looks up at Harry again. All the exhaustion from the plane and traveling for ten hours is more or less forgotten and now all he has to worry about is how badly his cheeks hurt from grinning. Harry is still cupping his face with both hands and looking at him intently. 

“You’re welcome,” Harry says politely. “I named him Louis. I got him at the grocery store.”

“Fascinating,” Louis says, and presses up on the tips of his toes to kiss him for the first time in a month. 

—

They stop at his house, first, to say hello to his mom and his siblings and to drop off his luggage. It’s good to be there, settling into the couch beside Harry while he talks to him and his mom over a cup of coffee about the last stretch of days in Barcelona and how tired he’s been and how he was weirdly more homesick overseas than he’d been when he was away for months at a time during college. It felt different and more isolating, but ultimately so rewarding that he can’t even wrap his head around how the experience will affect him just yet. It’s too fresh, and it’s difficult to reflect on anything when Harry’s leg is pressing repeatedly up against his and he keeps his arm around the back of the couch so that Louis can tuck himself beneath it, warm and comfortable and sleepy no matter how many cups of coffee he downs.

When his mom leaves them alone in the living room to get started on dinner, Harry taps Louis on the shoulder.

“C’mon,” Harry says. “Got places to be.” 

Louis yawns and shakes his head. He wants sleep and to not have to be anywhere but his couch. “I’m so tired,” he moans. “What time is it?” 

“It’s 4:30.” Harry stands up from the couch and reaches for Louis’ hand, holding his fingers loosely in his own. He’s so awake that it’s almost enough to perk Louis up and anyway Louis can’t very well sleep now that he’s around Harry again. Already he’s imagining ways for them to spend the night together, but Harry breaks him from his reverie, says, “You can’t go to sleep at 4:30.”

He has a point. “Where do we have to go?” Louis asks, finally getting to his feet. 

Harry jerks his head toward the door. “Just put your coat on.”

“Are we going to your place?” he asks as they head outside, hands shoved into his pockets to keep warm. Harry nods.

While Louis was gone, Harry had sent him progress photos from certain parts of his new house; a fully-stocked fridge and a messy bed and the view from the front window with text over the top that told him he wished he was there. After the night he left, though, they hadn’t discussed the possibility of Louis moving in with him again, and Louis doesn’t feel ready or awake enough or sure enough to bring that up.

There is no transition period, which is something Louis was worried about on off nights when he missed Harry the most and when time zones weren’t working in their favor. He’d been concerned that he would come home to a different town and a different Harry and a shattered version of the scenarios he’d been imagining in his head for a month straight. But Harry is still Harry, resting his big hand on Louis’ thigh while he drives and looking over at him to keep up their conversation at stop signs and causing not one but two cars to honk when he forgets to keep driving. He smiles sheepishly and squeezes Louis’ knee and Louis knows that, no, there is no transition period. There’s just picking up where they left off, holding hands on the snowy walkway up to Harry’s house, kissing before they even open the door.

“Freezing,” Louis says through a puff of breath, staring at Harry’s red nose.

“Heat’s on inside.” Harry unlocks the door and pushes it open to reveal…boxes. Lots of boxes.

Louis looks at him, then looks around again. There’s a sofa that looks new and a coffee table in front of it, but there’s no art on the walls and the boxes scattered in the hallway and the corners of the room make it seem less than lived-in. “Have you been living here?”

“Um,” Harry starts, and Louis turns to look at him. His eyes are intense as he looks around the place, like he’s trying to figure out, even then, what to do with it. He tucks his hair behind his ears and shrugs and then looks at Louis again. “Sometimes. I haven’t really, like, figured out. Yet. I’ve kind of been waiting.”

Louis’s heart pounds. “For the movers to bring in the rest of your stuff?”

Harry grins and turns his body toward Louis’. “No,” he says, almost frustrated. “For you to be home.”

“Why?” Louis is putting unnecessary pressure on him, now, because he thinks he knows, but he needs Harry to say it aloud.

“Well, I hate going to Ikea by myself,” Harry starts, and his hands find Louis’ waist beneath his jacket. “It’s no fun eating _kottbullar_ alone.”

“Shut up,” Louis grins, and steps closer to Harry.

“Eating _kottbullar_ alone and crying, I should say.” He drops a kiss to Louis’ cheek and Louis can hear him inhale, breathing him in, savoring something about this moment. Louis angles his head to press his mouth to Harry’s just once; he’s too close to resist it.

“So now what?” Louis asks, drawing back a few inches. He circles his hands around Harry’s biceps and stares at Harry’s face, at everything familiar and comforting about seeing him up close again and thinks that he could get used to waking up beside him everyday.

“So what if my place was our place?” Harry’s tone is light, as if this suggestion has no gravity to it, but Louis can see in his eyes that he’s serious. That he’s waiting for an answer. 

“Would you actually unpack the boxes if it was our place?”

Harry nods. His dimple is showing. 

“Would you buy me meatballs at Ikea?”

Harry clears his throat, looks far too pleased with himself. “They’re called kotbullar.”

Louis wants to pinch him or tell him to fuck off or roll his eyes, but he can’t stop laughing and Harry can’t stop kissing him. It’s better than he’d imagined it would be, coming home.

 


End file.
